


A king's love

by readtolive



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Ancient Egypt, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Barebacking, Blow Jobs, Graphic Description, M/M, Massages, Violence, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-16
Updated: 2017-07-16
Packaged: 2018-12-03 02:20:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 37,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11522505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/readtolive/pseuds/readtolive
Summary: A slave and a king fall in love. What could possibly go wrong?





	A king's love

Stiles stumbled into the large room of the palace, his legs struggling to keep up with the longer, more powerful legs of the men he was chained to. He'd long lost track of how many days they'd been walking, been marching here to the King's palace to start work building some giant, ridiculous statue to honor the gods that Stiles couldn't honestly believe in. How could the gods exist when they'd let Stiles be pulled from his happy, if poor, home and dragged for miles and miles through the hot desert?

One by one, the other slaves were unchained and forced up to kneel before the King. Stiles kept his eyes averted like he'd been ordered to, his back still aching from when he'd been whipped after hacking his own hair off with a knife in a misguided show of defiance. He felt his heart racing as the guards moved down the line, coming closer to him; even though he knew his fate was already decided. He wouldn't be going home; this process was only to show the King what his money had bought, introduce him to the nameless bodies who would be building his monument.

The guard's hand was rough on Stiles’ arm, yanking him forward and out of his thoughts. He barely managed not to trip over his feet, but the stone floor was hard on his knees as he was forced down. Stiles could hear the guard whispering, presumably telling the King that he was a difficult one. The voice grew louder, and just in time he realized he was being told to lift his eyes. He lifted his head slowly, taking in the sight before him.

The King was seated on a large golden throne, and nearly everything else about him gleamed as brightly. Gold sandals adorned his feet, and the skin of his body shone in the light of the palace. The cloth wrapped around his hips was fine, and Stiles' fingers itched as he ached to touch it, to feel something softer that the horrid itchy thing he'd been wearing. The King was wearing more jewelry than Stiles had ever seen his in life, heavy rings on his fingers, broad cuffs on his wrists and thin bands twining around his strong upper arms. Resting heavy on his chest was a half-moon shaped amulet, large, stretching from one nipple to the other.

Like everything else he was wearing, the amulet was inset with large jewels and stones, but as Stiles’ gaze moved higher, he found that he was most mesmerized by the King's eyes. They were rimmed heavily in kohl, which only made their icy color stand out that much more. Stiles didn't think he'd ever seen a pair of eyes like that, not blue or grey, but somehow both at the same time. The face that those eyes were in was strong, handsome and there was something around the edges of the full lips that Stiles thought might be a smile. Soon, the heavy gaze of the King became too much, and Stiles dropped his head again, feeling his cheeks color even below the sunburn.

He heard the King speaking softly to the guard again, but he could not hear the words. Stiles was scared; he'd thought he was prepared, but now he felt as though the stones beneath him were shaking.

***

Derek was bored; he didn't really care about the new slaves being brought in, but his people thought he should see the people who would be building the monument to his life. He wasn't sure why it mattered, seeing as many of them would be dead before the month was out. So he sat, tall and strong in his throne, nodding as each of the slaves was brought before him one at a time. It was a seemingly never-ending parade of dark, dirty men, some broad shouldered and strong looking, some thin and weak. Those were the ones that wouldn't last, the work was simply too much for them to handle.

Near the middle of the line, one of the slaves finally caught Derek's eye. He took in the man's kneeling form as his head guard whispered in his ear, words like defiant and difficult and not worth it. Derek raised a hand, silencing him immediately. He gestured, the guard instantly barking out an order for the slave to lift his chin. Derek felt his eyes widen briefly before he settled his face back into a smooth mask, letting his eyes take in the slave's appearance.

His body was slight, but not weak. The arms and thighs were clearly muscled, and the skin there was smooth and clear, where it wasn't marred by sun or the kiss of the guards' whip. What made this slave truly special however, was his hair. Most men had thick, wiry black hair cut very short, to withstand the oppressive Egyptian heat. It was rare to see a man with such soft, wavy locks, his time in the sun bleaching it here and there to golden brown, visible even through the dirt. It clearly used to be even longer, but the slave had hacked at it with a dull knife to shoulder length. He'd left a long shock in the front however and it hung in front of his face, slightly obscuring one of his eyes. His eyes were beautiful, large and brown, even as full of anger and defiance as they were. His lips were pink, full despite being drawn into a thin line, obviously working hard to keep from speaking out.

The slave's eyes met Derek's, and their gazes held briefly before the slave dropped his gaze to the floor again. His head hung low and subservient, but his shoulders and legs remained strong as if he was mere moments from leaping to his feet and running. Derek wanted him; he didn't know why, the slave was like so many others, but want him he did. As the King, there was no such thing as wanting, merely having and he gestured for the guard to come closer.

"Prepare him, and bring him to me. Tonight. I want him." Derek sat back, resting his chin on his closed fist as he watched the slave be yanked to his feet, and thrown back into line. He let a small smile play at the corners of his lips, and even as he continued to nod at each new slave that was brought in front of him, his eyes continued to drift to the small slave with the shiny hair. Once, their eyes met and Derek was struck with the intensity he saw there. Yes, he wanted him.

***

When the other slaves were being chained together again, Stiles held out his wrists for the shackles. Instead he felt the strong hand of the head guard wrap around his thin wrist, pulling him along. Stiles forced his legs to move quickly, not wanting to fall but barely able to keep up with the guards long, purposeful strides. He wanted to ask where he was being taken, but he couldn't make his throat cooperate; it had gone long unused for anything other than screaming.

Finally, they reached the end of a long hallway and stood in front of an ornately carved door. Stiles' eyes followed the carvings, the hieroglyphs sharp and defined but telling him little about what awaited him beyond that door. Had he been deemed too difficult to even bother keeping? Was he about to be killed? He was only a little surprised to find that the idea of death didn't scare him as much as he'd thought it would.

"The King wishes to have you tonight, in his private rooms. Behind this door you will be made ready for him. I do not know what he sees in someone so insolent as you, but you are lucky. I will return for you this evening and bring you to him." The guard's tone was clipped, and after opening the door and shoving Stiles through it, he turned and marched back down the hall.

Stiles jumped as the heavy door slammed shut behind him, and lifted his head to look around the room. It was the bath, and the heavy, scented air assaulted Stiles' senses with pleasant smells, the kind he'd almost forgotten had existed. He reached out for a small pot of scented oil, wanting to feel something smooth and fine, but his hand was swatted away. He was startled; he hadn't noticed anyone else in the room, but when he turned his gaze he saw a woman, small but strong, with dark hair and eyes, looking at him with a kind of exasperation.

"You don't touch, that's for me to touch. You are the one the King desires? Very well, I do not know what he sees in you but come with me. I shall prepare you for him." The woman spoke quickly, and moved with the same speed and Stiles shook his head and followed her. The large stone tub had already been filled with hot water, and scented with something clean. Stiles sniffed deeply as he slid naked into the tub, and thought the scent might be rosemary.

After he was seated, the woman wasted no time and spared no inch of his skin. A thick, creamy soap was spread over Stiles' skin and scrubbed away with a rough cloth until all of the dirt was gone, and his skin was pink. The hair was removed from under his arms and from his legs, and his face was carefully shaved. She lifted his hands and feet, cleaning and trimming his nails to make sure there were no sharp or jagged edges. His head was tipped back and his hair was cleaned with the same soap that had been used on his body.

"I suppose your hair is interesting, even if you've hacked half of it off." She muttered under her breath as her fingers worked against his scalp, and Stiles couldn't help but relax into the touch even if his heart still thudded with apprehension. He was then pulled from the bath and dried off quickly before being pulled to a large table and laid out. A pot of that scented oil was opened and the woman worked it into his skin, the scent filling Stiles' nostrils and relaxing him perhaps more than her touch. Her hands moved lightly over the scars on his back, as if she was practiced in this art, and Stiles realized she must be. How many slaves had the King decided he wanted? What happened to them when they were no longer wanted? He tried not to think of that as the woman's fingers worked into his muscles, releasing knots that had been there for so long he forgot life without them.

When all of his skin was gleaming from the oil he was pulled to his feet again and dressed. Simple leather sandals were slipped onto his feet and a new cloth was wrapped around his waist. It was nowhere near as fine as the one he'd seen on the King of course, but the linen was clean and didn't scratch Stiles' skin, and it felt luxurious. Thick kohl was drawn around his eyes, the black making them look impossibly dark and deep. He was given only one piece of jewelry to wear, a thin gold band that wrapped around his throat, resting just in the hollows of his collarbones.

"This is what all the slaves who go to him wear. No one else will touch you as long as you wear it. Pray that you wear it for a long time."

Stiles just nodded, still unable to find his voice. There was a lump in his throat, large and present and he could focus on little else as he watched the sun dropping lower in the sky through the small window in the room. Evening was coming, and he would soon be brought to the King. What the King wanted he could only guess, but his hand drifted to the gold band around his throat, and he did pray. Whatever the King wanted, it couldn't be as bad as working in the hot sun, carrying impossibly heavy stones, and while Stiles may not believe in gods, he prayed regardless, hoping that they believed in him.

***

In his sitting room, Derek was alone, sitting on a low wooden chair waiting for the slave to be brought to him. Next to him was a carafe of wine, and two goblets. He'd already drained one goblet of his own, fingers idly running around the edge of the glass. He was dressed much as he had been earlier, but he had removed the bulk of his jewellery, leaving only his heavy wrist cuffs and a few rings. The elaborate headdress of the King had been replaced with a golden headband resembling a coiled snake resting on his thick, dark hair.

He heard a brisk knock at his door and settled his hands calmly in his lap before responding simply. "Send him in." The door opened, and Derek struggled to keep his face under control as the slave stepped in, shutting the door behind him. His hands were clasped behind his back, his eyes cast downward, perfectly submissive except for the obvious tension in his arms and the strong set of his shoulders. He was more beautiful now that he had been earlier, his skin gleaming and tan, his hair now shining in the soft lamp light of the room. His shorn locks allowed Derek to see the collar around his throat clearly, and he felt the familiar stirrings in his belly from the sight.

"Come, kneel in front of me." Derek gestured slightly with his hand, and felt a smile tug at his lips as he watched the slave's internal struggle before he gave in and came to kneel before Derek. He poured the slave some wine, pushing the goblet into his hands, making it clear he was to drink it.

The slave took a small sip, his face screwing up slightly at the strong taste, but he took another already beginning to relax. "Tell me your name. Where did you come from?" The slave cleared his throat and licked his lips; it had obviously been some time since he'd been asked to speak. But, he couldn’t ignore the King’s request; the King would most probably kill him where he stood if he did that. "Stiles. My name is Stiles. I come from a village some distance from here. I was dragged from my house in the middle of the night, along with my brother. I don't know what happened to him, but I think that it might be better that way." He looked up then, and Derek was taken aback not only at the honesty in his words, but also the blatant anger and pain splashed across his face.

It was difficult for Stiles to look at the King and not hold him personally responsible for the slavery, even though the laws were older from his parents and their parents and their parents… The King was only gods’ messenger on Earth and it was their will – or so the laws said. Yet, there was Stiles, kneeling in front of him, thinking he could squash him like a gnat if he wanted to, but he felt that wasn’t the man’s intent.

"Stiles. I think you may be foolish, and your words are likely to get you in trouble." He reached a hand out to gently caress Stiles' cheek, hushing him when he flinched away. "No, I won't hurt you. And as long as you wear my collar, no one will trouble you. You interest me, Stiles. I think you are a strong person, one who is not likely to be broken like my other slaves. Your defiance is different from theirs somehow, and I want to learn more about you." This time when Derek's fingers brushed Stiles' cheek, he didn't turn away. In fact, Derek thought he felt a nearly imperceptible press of Stiles' cheek against his hand, as if he wanted more.

"So, Stiles. Will you let me learn more about you? In turn, I will show you things about me that many do not know. I think you crave something that you do not even understand, and I can give it to you, if you let me. The first thing you must know, is that when we are alone, please call me Derek." Derek looked into Stiles' eyes, searching them. The moment it happened, the moment the defiance left Stiles', and they became open and clear, Derek felt something stir inside him.

Stiles' voice was strong and determined as he spoke, holding Derek's eyes. "I will let you."

***

Stiles couldn't remember the last time that he'd been given a choice that truly felt like a choice. There was a large part of him that wanted to tell the King no, wanted to turn and walk out of the room, give himself over to a short life of hard labor. There was no salvation for him, he knew that. Maybe it would be better if he died sooner than later. But there was another part that looked into the King's – into Derek's - eyes, and saw kindness and gentleness, and just a hint of something more dangerous. When he looked into those eyes, and agreed to let Derek in, to let him take care of him even, he felt something inside him let go. It felt like releasing a breath he didn't know he was holding; maybe he did crave something, and maybe Derek was the one to show him what that was.

Derek stood before him and he tipped his head up, suddenly feeling like a child kneeling in front of a statue. But then, Derek reached down for him, pulling him to his feet, and Stiles couldn't help but feel like the motion was symbolic. They would never be equals, not within these rooms and certainly not outside of them, but still Stiles felt that Derek pulling him to his feet meant something. He felt Derek's fingers twine through his own, surprisingly gentle and not even remotely demanding. He looked down at their hands, his own slender and rough against Derek's, strong, smooth and with its nails blackened with indigo. The contrast made his heart skip, though he didn't know why and when he lifted his eyes again it was to Derek's smiling face.

"Come with me, to the bedroom. When we are in there, we are the same. I am not the King, and you are not my slave; we are simply Derek and Stiles. Yes?"

The look on Derek's face was something that Stiles had never seen on the face of someone in a position of authority. It was still strong, there was no doubt, but underneath that there was hope and something soft. Something that made Stiles think he could say no if he wanted to. He didn't want to, and he willingly followed Derek to the bedroom, eyes taking in the rooms around him, but always drifting back to the smooth skin of Derek's strong back.

The bedroom wasn't as grand as he would've expected, though it was certainly grander than anything Stiles had ever seen. There was little furniture, just a low bed, a large wooden chest and a table with a wash basin and ewer of water resting on it next to the bed. Stiles was already itching to feel the fine linens against his skin, to sink into the padding on the bed, having slept on nothing but the ground for so long.

"Stiles." Derek's voice pulled him out of his own head, and he turned to look at him, lips ready to utter a protest that he didn't deserve this, he wasn't worthy. As if Derek could hear his thoughts, he spoke again. "You are beautiful, Stiles. Believe that, beauty is something I do not lie about." Derek pulled him close, resting his hands lightly on Stiles' hips. He bent forward slowly and kissed Stiles gently on the lips.

Stiles froze for a moment at the touch of Derek's lips on his. Of course, he knew why Derek had brought him to his room; he'd known that from the moment the guard brought him to the baths. He closed his eyes and forced his brain to stop thinking about all the reasons that this was stupid and dangerous and wrong, and just gave himself over to it.

Derek's lips were as soft and supple as Stiles' were dry and sun-chapped, and they felt good. Stiles found himself kissing back, his lips parting to let Derek's tongue in, the smooth warmth of it making him moan softly in the back of his throat. Derek deepened the kiss and wrapped his arms tighter around Stiles' waist, pressing their bodies together from chest to knees. His chest felt hot against Stiles', even though Stiles knew his own skin was overheated, and he leaned into that heat, letting his hands trail lightly up Derek's back.

It had been a long time since he'd felt the touch of another person in such an intimate way and he shuddered as Derek's hands moved around his waist to where the cloth was fastened over his hip. Derek's fingers moved swiftly, and Stiles sighed as he pressed forward, Derek's fingers digging harder into his hips. He dropped his own hands to Derek's waist, and though they shook as his fingers fumbled unfasten the closure on Derek's cloth, he felt a strange sense of pride when Derek was as naked as him.

Stiles traced his hands slowly back up Derek's back, laying his palms flat against the broad plane of his shoulder before tipping his head up to kiss him again, his heart pounding hard enough that he was sure Derek could feel it. The kiss was hungry, growing deep and hard. Their tongues tangled with one another, and Stiles lifted one hand to fist it in Derek's thick hair. He was growing greedy, demanding, and he hooked his leg around Derek's hip to bring their cocks together, a moan bubbling up in the back of his throat.

"Stiles." Derek spoke softly against Stiles' mouth, not wanting to pull too far away. "Go lay on the bed. I want more." Derek's voice was deep and throaty as he spoke, and Stiles felt a shudder run down his spine. He wanted whatever Derek would give him, whatever Derek wanted to take.

"I want more, I want everything." As soon as the words left his lips, Stiles' cheeks colored and he dropped his head. Had he already forgotten who he was, and who the man in his arms was?

Derek kissed his forehead softly, hand rubbing a soothing circle on his back. "In this room, you can have everything you want, as long as you ask for it." He led Stiles to the bed and pushed him down to lie on his stomach, and Stiles groaned as his body sunk into the cushion. The padding wasn't thick, but Stiles was certain he'd never felt anything as smooth as the linens, and it took much of his willpower not to wriggle around on them, just to feel it.

Derek lay next to him and ran a hand softly down Stiles' back, fingers tracing along each scar left by the guard's whip. Stiles turned his head away from Derek, not wanting to see pity reflected there. He had deserved every one of those lashes, and he was not ashamed. He was startled when he felt Derek's lips against his back, following the path of his fingers. He kissed every single scar on Stiles' back, darting his tongue out to run along the ones that stood out more than the others. Stiles felt his breath grow quicker, finding the scars much more sensitive than he would've imagined. By the time Derek reached his lower back and the end of the scarred flesh, Stiles was near to panting, and his hips were pressing down into the bed for friction.

"Please." Stiles spoke, asking for something but not able to articulate what he wanted. "Please."

"Please what, Stiles?" Derek's hand kept moving over Stiles, sliding over his ass, down his thighs and back up until Stiles’ skin felt like it was going to vibrate off his body.

"D-D...Derek, please." His hips arched up into Derek's hands and he turned his head to catch Derek's eye. He knew that his eyes must look wild and desperate, but he simply didn't have the words to ask for what he wanted. He needed Derek to see that in his eyes, to give him what he needed.

When Stiles turned his head to face him, Derek's heart nearly stopped. His face was nearly heart-breakingly beautiful in this moment, all the anger from earlier smoothed out and replaced with naked want. His eyes were glassy, and Derek would swear he could see fire burning behind the deep brown. He realized how much it had taken for Stiles to ask for anything at all, to use Derek's name, and he wasn't going to play games tonight.

He ran his hand down Stiles' spine one more time, leaning down to whisper soft and soothing things into his ear. When he sat back up, he reached to the small table beside the bed and retrieved a small pot. After opening and slicking his fingers with the contents, he nudged Stiles' legs apart until he could kneel between them.

"Remember Stiles, you can always tell me to stop." He circled one of his slick fingers around Stiles’ hole for a few moments, listening to the sound Stiles was making. He knew that Stiles was unlikely to stop him, and he didn't want to hurt him. Derek gently pushed his finger in, and was surprised by Stiles’ reaction. His hips immediately pushed back, seeking more and Derek gave it to him. One finger quickly became two, and two became three and the way that Stiles was moaning and writhing beneath Derek made him never want to stop, wanted to bring Stiles to his peak using nothing but his fingers. Derek closed his eyes, the visual of that flashing through his head and bringing a choked gasp out of his mouth. Reluctantly, he pulled out his fingers, the whine that spilled from Stiles' lips making his cock twitch.

He smeared the oil from the pot over his cock and was moving to lay over Stiles when he felt a hand grabbing back at him. He stopped, sitting back on his heels to allow Stiles to turn to face him. "I want...to see you. This way." Stiles rolled over on to his back, letting his legs fall wantonly to the side and once again Derek was struck by the slave's beauty. He was all heavy-lidded eyes and swollen lips, and stretched out before Derek like this it was like he was a perfect sacrifice.

Derek moved forward again, lining his cock up with Stiles’ hole and pushing in, slow but firm. Stiles' body gave way beneath him easily, and Derek shuddered at the feeling. With each thrust he worked himself in deeper until his hips were slapping against Stiles' each time. He was moving slow, making sure that both of them were feeling every second of this, as if he could burn it into their minds as long as he didn't move too fast.

Beneath him, Stiles' body arched and curved like a cat’s, his legs wrapped tightly around Derek's waist. Derek could see Stiles' cock, hard against his belly and his fingers ached to touch it. He leaned down to kiss Stiles, their mouths open, the kiss filthy and messy as they panted and moaned. When he pulled back it was only because he needed to feel Stiles' cock in his hand, his fingers wrapping smoothly around it and stroking it in time with the slow thrusts he was making into Stiles' body.

They moved together easily, like it was practiced. Stiles' leg hitching up just perfectly, Derek's hips rolling at exactly the right moment, their voices rising and falling in near perfect unison. His mind might have been filled with ideas of soulmates and of meant to be, but as the King he was no longer entitled to such fanciful things, and so he let his mind drift until it settled on Stiles.

Beneath him, he felt Stiles begin to shake, his breath going in gasps and coming out in breathy moans. Derek wrapped his hand tighter around Stiles' cock and pushed into him harder and faster until he felt Stiles come apart in his arms. Stiles was beautiful in the moment, head tossed back, throwing the collar around his neck into sharp relief as he came. His body arched up against Derek, pulling his cock impossibly deeper and that was enough to send Derek tumbling down after him. He dropped his head to Stiles' throat, digging his teeth into the soft flesh as he rode out his orgasm, hips gradually growing still against Stiles'.

They lay there in silence for a few minutes, heart rates slowing to normal before Derek climbed out of the bed. Stiles rolled over to watch him, staying quiet as he watched Derek go through something that resembled a ritual. He knelt next to the small table near the bed and removed each piece of jewellery he was wearing, carefully placing it on a cloth. He then dipped a cloth into the water and wiped away the heavy kohl from around his eyes. Stiles was frankly fascinated, and he felt as though he was seeing something he shouldn't. Derek dipped another cloth in the water, and turned to Stiles with a soft smile on his face as he gestured to him.

Stiles moved across the bed until he was laying right at the edge, and he gasped as the cool cloth touched his belly. Derek cleaned him meticulously, running the cloth over every inch of his stomach, and gently between his legs. It was oddly soothing, and Stiles' eyes were drifting shut by the time Derek moved the cloth away and replaced it with his warm hand resting gently on Stiles' stomach.

"I would like you to stay with me tonight. I think that I would like you to stay with me most nights, but tonight especially." Stiles noticed that this wasn't really a request or a question, but it didn't have to be. He would never have said no, and Derek knew that. Stiles shifted back across the bed to make room for Derek who climbed in after blowing out the lamps, sending the room into near total darkness.

Derek's strong arms wrapped around Stiles', one hand searching until it could twine its fingers with his. That hand rested just below Stiles' neck, and the edge of the collar he wore was cool against his fingers. For the first time in a very long time, Stiles felt genuinely safe and protected, like nothing could hurt him as long as he was right here.

He could never love the King, their statuses made even the thought of that foolish, but he was already grateful to him. There was a large part of him that remained wary, worried that the situation was too good to be true, but he pushed it aside. For a man like Stiles, safety was a commodity that could be bought and sold and if the King saw something in Stiles worth saving, who was he to argue?

As he slept that night, which he hoped would be the first of many, Stiles found himself dreaming of the gods he had not given thought to since he was a child. Perhaps they did believe in him after all.

***

Stiles settled down into the bed, the linens soft beneath him and the King's arms warm and comforting around him. There was no fear as he shut his eyes and gave himself over to sleep, and that feeling was nearly foreign; he'd forgotten what it was like to fall asleep and not worry that he'd be woken by screams or a sharp kick in the ribs or even the kiss of a whip across his shoulders. A soft smile curled his lips as he tucked himself closer to the King's broad chest, his breathing growing even and deep in the silence of the room and he fell asleep easily, his fingers tangled with those of the King.

He awoke with a start sometime later, the room still so dark he couldn't see a foot in front of his face. He was breathing heavily and his heart was thumping as he struggled against the grip that held him tightly. His mind was racing with how he needed to get away from the man that was holding him, but the arms only held him tighter, the hands rubbing soft circles between his shoulder blades.

"Sleep, Stiles. Sleep." Stiles' breath caught in his throat as he recognized the voice of the King against his ear, recognized the smooth feeling of his skin. His heart began to slow and he let himself be pulled back into the cushions by the King's strong arms. The King was already asleep again, his breath warm and moist where his lips rested against Stiles' forehead. Stiles' eyes were wide open and his mind was still spinning, memories of experiences past mixing with new ones and with fears of what might come. He tried to focus on the even sound of the King's breathing and the spreading warmth of the King's hand against his back, and eventually sleep dragged him back under.

When the first splash of sunlight spilled through the high windows, Stiles awoke again, only slightly gentler. He felt cold, and he rubbed his hands over his arms for a few moments before taking in his surroundings. His eyes adjusted quickly to the morning light, and he took in the smooth, broad back of the King next to him and the dimly glinting jewellery on the low table next to the bed. His hand reached out to touch, wanting the King's arms wrapped around him again, holding him close and keeping him safe. He froze, his hand just a breath away from brushing over the King's skin, his fingers shaking as his brain caught up with his movements.

He sat up quickly and snapped his hand back to his chest like he'd been burned, his heart suddenly racing. He thought of all the boundaries that he had been about to step over and the ones he had surely already crossed, his blood buzzing through his veins. No matter what the King had said last night, Stiles was a slave, a piece of property to be bought and sold and he should never have shared a bed with a man chosen by the gods. His hand fluttered to his throat briefly, just barely touching the collar that rested there, but he rose to his feet anyways, locking his eyes forward. He tried to be quiet, wrapping the cloth back around his waist and slipping his feet into the soft leather sandals he'd been given. He made it nearly all the way to the door before the King's steady voice stopped him in his tracks.

"Stiles." The King had rolled onto his side, resting his head on one bent arm. "Where are you going?"

Stiles dropped to his knees and bent his head, clasping his hands behind his back. "I was going to ... I should not have ... I am sorry, King." In that moment, Stiles realized he didn't know where he had been going. He didn't know where anything was in the palace except for the grand hall and the baths, and he felt his cheeks color when he heard the King climb out of the bed and walk towards him.

The King's hand was gentle as it rested on Stiles' shoulder, and Stiles leaned into it for a moment. "Derek. When we are in this room, I am Derek. And you do not need to kneel before me. Have you forgotten our talk last night so quickly?" The smile on Derek's face was soft and genuine, and his fingers were cool as he tipped Stiles' face up to look at him. "Come back to bed, we have more to talk about."

Stiles stood and allowed Derek's fingers to twine with his own and pull him towards the bed, his heart rate gradually slowing. His blood still felt like it was moving too quickly through his veins, and he still felt like he was about to wake up at any moment and find himself chained up again, being forced out into the hot sun to literally work until he dropped dead. When Derek tugged him back down onto the bed and drew the sheet up over him, Stiles couldn't stop the slight shiver than ran through his body.

"Relax, Stiles. You can always trust me to speak the truth to you, and you are safe here." Derek's fingers played briefly over the collar resting lightly against Stiles' collarbone before sweeping down Stiles' side to linger on his hip just above where the cloth was loosely wrapped. He cast his eyes up to the window and furrowed his brow slightly. "You woke early. The sun is still low, and I like to stay in bed whenever I can." The twinkle in Derek's eyes didn't go unnoticed, and Stiles felt the blush spread from his cheeks down onto his chest.

"I'm used to waking early, Ki- ... Derek." Stiles forced himself to meet Derek's eyes, once again taken aback at the intensity of his gaze. He wondered if he'd ever get used to it. "When we were ... traveling, we marched from the moment the sun crept over the horizon until it was too black for the camels to see. The guards feet never touched the ground unless ..." He stopped abruptly, his teeth digging hard into his lip as his eyes swept away from Derek's.

"Go on, I want to know." Derek's fingers squeezed his hip lightly, and when Stiles looked back up through the shock of hair that hung over his eyes, Derek's eyes looked to be full of genuine concern.

"They never got off the camels unless they had to beat one of us, or it was time to stop for the night. If they were made to beat one of us, they often beat others, just for the trouble." Stiles closed his eyes for a moment; the hot slap of the whip something that was still so fresh in his memory.

"Were you beaten often?" Derek's voice was level and soft, and his fingers slid up Stiles' body to rest gently against his cheek.

Stiles nodded, pressing his face into Derek's hand. He took a deep breath and exhaled shakily before he spoke, not sure how wise it was to tell the man who was saving his life just how little he deserved it. "Almost daily. I am ... defiant." A small smirk quirked the corner of Stiles' lips as he thought about all of the things he had done to get whipped. Most of them had been worth it.

"Tell me." Derek's voice was firm, but soft. Stiles could tell it wasn't a command, but his heart still began to race at the thought of telling Derek all the things that he had done. He wasn't ashamed of standing up for himself or for others, but he also knew that those actions did not make him a desirable slave, especially not one who belonged so close to the most powerful man in Egypt. Stiles felt his cheeks flush, and he looked away, focusing his eyes on a spot of light in the corner and tried to think. He could feel something bubbling up in his chest and threatening to spill out of his lips, and it felt like everything. Derek's fingers were gentle against Stiles' cheek, stroking until Stiles finally turned to look at him, locking their eyes.

Stiles' panic must have been written across his face like the pages of a book, for Derek spoke again, softer. "Nothing you say here will be held against you. Believe me, I was well-warned of your defiance when I requested you. I was told nothing specific, and I am merely curious. I want to know more about you, and those stories are what make you, you." Derek's fingers swept gently through Stiles' hair, pushing it back so he could see Stiles' eyes.

Stiles stared at Derek silently for a few moments, searching his face for a sign that his words were anything other than genuine. His words were sitting right at the bottom of his throat, the only thing keeping them from coming out the tight clamp of Stiles' lips. Derek's eyes were soft around the edges, but there was something in them, something more that urged Stiles forward. "Most of the time, I tried to just keep my head down and stay out of their sights. But...there were young people in our group, boys and girls. They were always stumbling or getting tired or dropping something, they couldn't help it."

Stiles felt his voice waver a little and he tried to turn away, but Derek's fingers caught his chin and held him firm. "I stood up for them. If they were tired, I'd stop walking. If they did something wrong, I took the blame. If the guards were just ... in the mood, I took their whippings. As often as I could, I took them."

Derek's eyes were soft when Stiles looked into them, and he saw something close enough to pity that his stomach turned. He spoke quickly, wanting to make that look leave Derek's eyes. He didn't want his pity, didn't deserve it. He dropped his gaze to Derek's chest, his gaze suddenly too heavy. "I wasn't ... I wasn't the only one, we all tried. We tried ..." Stiles let his voice trail off, and silently prayed that Derek wouldn't ask him what they tried to stop, what they didn't succeed in stopping. He was strong, he knew that, but he wasn't strong enough to say those things out loud. He lifted his eyes to Derek's again, a new strength set around the edges. "There were other things too, not just that. I got whipped on my own merit more than enough times."

The words spilled from Stiles' mouth like water from a jug, easy, but difficult to stop once the flow had been started. Stiles had never told anyone these stories to anyone before, had never wanted or needed to, but in this moment, it felt necessary. His chest felt like it was swelling, like it might explode if he didn't get the words out. There was something about Derek that made him feel like it was okay, like nothing bad would happen if he told him his stories. About the time Stiles had interrupted the guards dragging a young girl from her sleeping area, her dress torn. His body had moved faster than he knew he was capable of, his fists and feet pounding at the guards until they forced him to the ground. Dozens of whip slashes and a few broken fingers were worth it, when that little girl brought him a crust of bread and whispered her soft thanks.

Many of Stiles' stories centered on his difficulty with doing what he was told, even after months and months of being a slave. Stiles had long lost count the number of times that the guards had beaten and whipped him, determined to break him down, to make him give in, but he never did. Stiles told Derek of the time he had been beaten for pausing in his daily work, and requesting water. The skin of his lips had been cracked and bleeding, and his vision was so fuzzy from the heat that he could no longer see to work. When the guards made a show of pouring water onto the sand in front of Stiles' feet, he'd launched himself at them, his anger sudden and hotter than the desert. Later, he had turned around in the middle of his punishment, blood dripping from his nose and trickling down his back and sneered at the guards, asking if that was all they had.

It wasn't, and when they began travelling again, Stiles had needed to be carried by the other slaves, draped heavily over their backs, his bruised and broken body weak, useless. What Stiles didn't tell Derek was how he'd spent all those days apologizing, his voice raw and his cheeks reddened from tears. That was the one time that Stiles could remember wishing that they'd killed him, wondering why they hadn't, because now he was a burden to the slaves that had become his family. From the way that the guards had laughed, and forced him to repeat his apology again and again, he suspected that was their point. They had been trying to break his spirit once again, and for many moments, he'd thought they'd succeeded.

It was then that Stiles paused, his throat suddenly feeling scratchy, and when he reached his hand up to his cheeks, he realized tears had started to spill over the edge. Crying was not allowed; it showed weakness, and he couldn't afford that. His breath was a little ragged as he locked eyes with Derek, the silence triggering Derek to respond.

"You were foolish to encourage them like that, Stiles, but I am glad that they never managed to break you. And it takes a very strong man to let himself be hurt to save others the same fate. You are a good man, Stiles." Derek leaned in to kiss Stiles' forehead softly, his next words spoken quietly against Stiles' skin. "You must know, that I do not approve of the use of children as slaves. That I don’t… If I could somehow…"

Stiles' muscles stiffened slightly, and he fought against the words that wanted to bubble from his lips. He wanted to know at what age one becomes old enough for slavery, why it was different to enslave a grown man than it was a small boy, but he didn't ask. Instead, he took what Derek had said the way that he had meant it; as a small bit of kindness. He didn't trust himself to speak just then, so he merely nodded, letting his muscles relax again as Derek's fingers pushed through his hair some more.

"Tell me about your hair. What did you do to it?" Derek lifted a few of the strands to his lips and kissed them. "It's beautiful, you know."

"I do know. That's why I did it." Stiles closed his eyes, images and moments flashing before them as he tried to find the words. "I know that my hair is different, and so did the guards. They made a point of telling both my brother and I how special it was, and how it would help them fetch a high price for him." He cringed at that thought, and once again tried not to think of what had become of his brother. "They wanted to sell him, and they needed him to be ... untouched. But they were fascinated with his hair."

Stiles felt his eyes start to burn again, and he blinked the tears away. His emotions had already overcome him once, he couldn't let it happen again. "The guards would pull me around by it, drag me into their tents on special nights. Force me onto my knees, onto my stomach with their fists wrapped tight in it...sometimes they even pulled out clumps, they tugged so hard trying to get me to give in."

Derek's hand dropped swiftly from Stiles' hair to his chest, rubbing soothing circles there. Stiles couldn't help the small smile that crept onto his lips at that gesture, Derek showing concern Stiles could feel was real. "One night, I'd had enough. I managed to steal a dull knife when no one was looking, but they caught me before I could finish." Stiles lifted a hand to brush through the shock of hair that hung over his eye. "It was enough to make them stop though. Once they couldn't pretend anymore, once I wasn't beautiful, they didn't want me. But that night ..." He shut his eyes, thinking of the way that nearly every inch of his back had been torn up by their whips, of the way that they'd held him down on his belly and whipped the bottoms of his feet till they bled, of the way that in that moment, and for the next several days as his raw feet marched over hot sand, he'd thought that maybe taking every one of them into his body every night would be better than one more second of this.

Derek didn't ask for Stiles to continue, instead he simply wrapped his arms around him, and pulled him close, into what Stiles realized was the first real embrace he'd felt in long enough that he'd forgotten how it felt. He buried his face into Derek's chest and inhaled deeply, letting the spicy-sweet smell fill his nostrils and the warmth of Derek's skin chase away the sudden chill he'd felt when telling his story.

"You're still beautiful, Stiles. Maybe even more so." Derek's fingers traveled up Stiles' back lightly, tracing over the bumps in his spine.

Stiles pulled back just far enough that he could look at Derek, could take in every inch of his face. His heart felt full, and he suddenly felt brave. "You're the beautiful one. You have no scars, your skin is smooth and soft and your eyes ..." Stiles lifted one hand to rest against Derek's face, his fingers just ghosting over Derek's eyelashes. "If my hair is special, then your eyes ... I'm not beautiful, but you are."

Derek was quiet, but his hands were insistent as he pushed Stiles onto his back and spread his own body over top of him. He lowered his lips to Stiles' face and kissed him softly, starting at his forehead and moving down. Stiles' eyes fluttered shut when Derek's lips brushed over them, and he found his chin tilting up to catch Derek's lips when they moved lower. He could only describe the kiss as gentle, Derek's soft lips pressing against his and Derek's tongue just barely pushing into Stiles' mouth.

Stiles' hands slid up Derek's back and ran through his hair, not pulling, just letting the thick, soft strands slide through his fingers. He shifted his body so that Derek could settle heavily between his legs, the cloth around Stiles' waist just a little rough against his skin. Stiles could feel a slow heat starting to burn low in his belly and his hips rocked against Derek's as their kiss started to grow deeper. He opened his mouth more to let Derek in deeper, finding that Derek tasted just like he smelled. Stiles pushed his tongue into Derek's mouth, sweeping it into the far corners to pull as much of that taste out as he could, craving it already.

Derek sighed softly against Stiles' mouth, and kissed him back as deep and slow as Stiles was kissing him. He pulled back just a little to drag his teeth over Stiles' lower lip, nipping gently when he felt Stiles breath in sharply. He laved his tongue over the spot to soothe it, obliging when Stiles' tongue darted out to join his own. The kiss grew deep and messy, Derek's teeth scraping over Stiles' lips and Stiles' tongue seeking out more of that spicy-sweet taste. They kissed until they were breathless, and until Stiles' lips were swollen and pink from Derek's teeth.

Derek rested his forehead against Stiles' for a moment, smiling against his skin as he dragged the very tip of his tongue down Stiles' cheek to his neck. He licked down the column of Stiles' throat until he reached the thin gold collar that rested against his collarbones, bringing one hand up to play his fingers along the cool metal. It wasn't until Derek spoke that Stiles realized he was holding his breath.

"Stiles, relax for me." Derek's fingers continued to caress Stiles' neck gently where the collar rested, slipping just underneath it while his other hand moved soothingly down Stiles' chest. "This collar means that you're mine, and as long as you are, as long as you're good... you are safe in this room." He bent to press his lips against Stiles' pulse which was hammering hard against his skin, nuzzling until Stiles' breath came back. "Do you trust me? Can you do that?"

Stiles nodded, because he did trust Derek, as much as he could ever trust the man that owned him. The power Derek still held over him as the King meant that Derek could go back on his word at any moment, but the way that Derek's lips teased over Stiles' throat and the way that his fingers pressed into the soft skin at Stiles' hip made him want to believe. Stiles felt a little smile creep onto his face, and a soft, nervous laugh huffed out from his lips. "I do trust you, and I will try to be good. I've never been very... good at being good."

Derek's laugh was loud and sudden, and Stiles could feel it rumbling through his own body. "Well, if you were too good, what fun would that be? I didn't make you mine because I thought it would be easy and safe." Derek bit just slightly too hard into Stiles' collarbone, making Stiles gasp and dig his blunt fingernails into Derek's back. "I do like a challenge, and I have the feeling you might be worth it."

Stiles was silent for a moment, the sudden levity throwing him before he could get his feet back underneath him. "I cannot promise anything, but I'll do my best to live up to your expectations. I wouldn't want you to be disappointed." Stiles let himself grin at Derek, a real smile for the first time in a very long time. It felt good, and Stiles swore he could feel something deep inside him cracking open.

"I do not think I will be disappointed, but I appreciate the concern." Derek's voice was full of mirth, and Stiles was busy thinking of a clever response when Derek's teeth once again sank into Stiles' neck and he forgot how to speak. What came out of his mouth instead was a soft moan with just a hint of sharpness creeping in around the edges, and Stiles sank his fingers eagerly into Derek's thick hair.

His hands followed as Derek kissed and nipped his way down Stiles' neck, swirling his tongue over the very tips of the scars that wrapped around Stiles' shoulders. Stiles remembered the night before, all the time that Derek had spent touching them, kissing them, acting like they were beautiful and it was like a shock went through his body. His skin felt like it was tingling, like it was on fire and he slid his hands out of Derek's hair to dig into the skin of his back, his blunt nails leaving marks that would soon fade, unlike the ones on his own skin.

Derek groaned against Stiles' shoulder, scraping his teeth once more over the imperfect skin before dragging his tongue around to Stiles' chest. He licked slow circles around Stiles' nipples, waiting until one was hard and nearly aching before moving to the next. Stiles was panting below him, his hands gripping Derek's shoulder tightly as if they were the only thing keeping him from flying off the bed. Derek's tongue was hot, and Stiles swore it was actually burning a trail into his skin as he swiped down his stomach and swept into his navel. Derek was so warm, his skin, his breath, his tongue, and Stiles thought that Derek must have been molded from the sun, the hands of the gods forming his perfect body from the heat and light.

It wasn't until Derek huffed out a small laugh against Stiles' abdomen that Stiles realized his thought had been out loud. He thought he should be embarrassed, but he wasn't and that thought floated away when Derek swept that hot tongue along the edge of the cloth that Stiles still wore. He mouthed along the cloth, his tongue sweeping just under it, his teeth biting into the sensitive skin over Stiles' hip bone, one hand sliding smoothly up Stiles' thigh. Stiles' eyes were shut and his mouth was wide open, his hips starting to rock up at Derek as his fingers brushed the soft skin of Stiles' inner thigh. Stiles was hard, the cloth he was wearing feeling rough against his overheated skin, and one of his hands dropped from Derek's shoulder to the clasp that fastened it.

His fingers were shaking as they fumbled with the clasp, and he pricked one on the sharp pin before he managed to open the clasp and push the garment off. Derek's fingers closed gently around Stiles' wrist and brought his hand to his mouth, his lips closing around the finger Stiles had pricked. His tongue felt good against the small wound, and the way that Derek's eyes darkened and locked with Stiles' own made his stomach flutter. Derek's tongue swirled around Stiles' finger again and again until Stiles couldn't even remember the pain of the pin sticking his skin.

Derek pulled his lips off of Stiles' finger and placed a soft kiss to his palm, and pressed his lips briefly to Stiles' wrist, Stiles' pulse thrumming. He moved back between Stiles' legs, bending to place soft kisses on his inner thighs before licking a stripe up Stiles' cock, curling his tongue deftly around the head. Stiles nearly shouted, his breath huffing out of his lungs, but he forced his eyes to remain open, one arm thrown behind his head to make it easier to watch. Derek's lips were red and wet as they slid down Stiles' cock, and Stiles could already tell he wasn't going to last. He'd never felt anything like this in his life, the wet heat of Derek's mouth surrounding his cock, Derek's tongue swirling around the head and dipping into the slit.

Stiles' head was spinning, his senses overwhelmed and pinpricks of panic trying to sneak in around the edges. He reached down, twisting his fingers into Derek's hair again, pulling up just enough so that he could lock eyes with him. The lust pooling there pushed back the panic, replacing it with more welcome feelings as Derek slid his mouth further down Stiles' cock, their eyes never parting. Stiles let his head fall back then, his eyes blinking slowing and his fingers loosening in Derek's hair as he relaxed into the sensations.

The sun was moving higher in the sky, the dim light of the room brightening to splash dappled patches over Derek's back. It was in this light that Stiles noticed that under the golden tan of his skin, Derek's back was covered with a tattoo. The sun made it look like it was glowing, and Stiles smiled to himself, that thought merely confirming to him that Derek was made of light. Stiles let his hands drift from Derek's hair to his shoulders, the rough pads of his fingers tracing the pattern over Derek's skin, nails digging in whenever Derek moved his tongue just right.

The heat burned low in Stiles' belly and he could feel it spreading through his limbs, making them feel heavy and fuzzy. He let himself sink deeper into the bed, his hips rocking up into Derek's mouth. He groaned when his cock slid over the roof of Derek's mouth and bumped into the back of his throat, Derek answering with a moan that vibrated through Stiles' entire body. Stiles felt himself tipping over the edge, his face going hot and his fingers digging sharply into Derek's shoulders as the heat in his belly flared.

He shouted wordlessly and pushed up into Derek's mouth, coming hard enough that he could hear the blood rushing in his ears. Derek's tongue was warm and soft as it licked over Stiles' over-heated flesh, sweeping a few final times over the head of Stiles' cock, lapping up all traces of Stiles' orgasm. Derek crawled up next to Stiles, fitting their bodies together and dipped his head to place soft kisses on Stiles' shoulder. Stiles turned to capture Derek's lips in a kiss, pressing their bodies together, Derek's cock trapped hard between them. They kissed lazily as the sun finally shone bright and high in the skin, bathing the room in a warm, yellow glow.

Stiles slid a hand between their bodies to wrap around Derek's cock, but it was pushed away gently. "Later." Derek kissed Stiles' forehead gently, smiling. "I believe that it is about time for me to begin my day, and for you to begin yours."

As if on cue, a sharp knock came from the hall just outside the room. "King, may I enter?" A booming voice spoke, and for a brief moment Stiles tensed, reaching to tug the linens over himself. Derek ran a hand down his arm, soothing him before answering the guard.

"Yes, Deaton, you may." Derek made no move to cover himself, and Stiles was a little surprised when the guard didn't react to the sight before him, other than a small nod of greeting in Stiles' direction.

"There has been progress made on your monument, King, and they would like you to see. Shall I escort you there?" Deaton was a large man, his skin dark and his bald head gleaming in the light. Stiles could tell that he was strong and powerful, but something about him looked kind, the sort of kindness Stiles had never witnessed in a guard before.

"Yes, I'd like to see it." Derek rolled away from Stiles and climbed out of bed, striding over to the large chest where his clothing was kept. "I'll get ready and meet you in the great hall. When I do, will you please take Stiles to Melissa to begin his training? I have decided I would like him to work for me, exclusively."

"Yes, of course. I have left breakfast in your living room. Enough for two." Deaton's eyes twinkled as he looked at Stiles, and there may have even been a hint of a smile on his serious face. "Enjoy your meal, King, I shall wait for you in the hall." With that, Deaton stepped out of the room, moving nearly silently despite his large frame. The heavy door clicked shut behind him, and Derek turned to Stiles as he fastened a new cloth around his waist, one that seemed to be woven with golden threads in the linen.

"What I said to Deaton, about you working for me. Does that interest you?" He sounded like he was genuinely asking, and Stiles had to breathe for a moment to take that in. He stood and wrapped his cloth around himself, fiddling with the clasp before turning back to Derek.

"It does. What would ... that entail, exactly?" Stiles fiddled with his garment and with his hair, feeling awkward now that it was officially morning, and a new day.

"Melissa runs the baths, you met her last night. She will teach you so that you may perform those functions for me, and you will also be in charge of my wardrobe and jewelery. If you can read and write, you will be my personal scribe. You will accompany me on my travels, and sit in on my official duties and meals." Derek walked to the table near the bed, and slid the cuffs back onto his wrists, and clasped the large amulet behind his neck. When he turned back to Stiles, he again looked like the King, only the head piece and thick eyeliner were missing. "Does that sound good, Stiles?"

Stiles nodded, his mouth a little dry as he took in the sight. "It does. And I do read and write, my parents ensured that my brother and I were both able to when we were very young." Stiles closed his eyes briefly, thinking of his family before continuing. "They also taught us other things. I know a bit of music, if you would ever like for me to play for you."

A look akin to pure joy came over Derek's face, and he clasped his hands together in front of his chest. "I would love for you to play for me, and for my guests. What instruments do you play? I will have Deaton get them for you. It has been too long since we've had someone with musical talent in the palace." Derek reached a hand out for Stiles, pulling him towards the living area. "Come, let's eat, and then we can get started on our day. The sooner we start, the sooner we can come back here and finish what we began this morning." The glint of glee in Derek's eyes made him look young, too young to have so much power, but it was contagious.

Stiles grinned as he answered Derek, allowing Derek to take his hand. "I'm best at the lute, but I've played the harp before too. Either would be fine."

"I can get you both. Do you sing?" Derek pulled Stiles out of the bedroom and into the sitting room which looked remarkably different in the morning light than it had the night before.

"I have, but I wouldn't count it among my talents. I would rather play for someone else to sing." Stiles shrugged his shoulders, remembering the sweet sound of his brother's voice as his own fingers had strummed along his lute.

Derek's eyes twinkled a little brighter, like he was planning something, but he didn't speak. Instead, he stepped to the side and gestured to the table in the center of the room.

Stiles fought to keep his jaw from hanging open as he swept his eyes over the table where an impressive spread was set out, more food than he had seen in his entire life. Ewers of water and carafes of wine, dishes of honey and figs, and a large loaf of freshly baked bread covered the table, as well as fruits that Stiles had never even seen. The wonder must have been clear on his face, judging by the clear tone of Derek's laugh behind him.

"Sit, Stiles, and eat. Eat as much as you like, there's no hurry." Derek helped himself to a piece of bread, some honey, a few figs and a large goblet of wine, leaving the rest to Stiles. Stiles was tentative at first, but once he tasted the soft bread melting on his tongue, he was suddenly starving. The fruit was sweet and tangy, the wine was cool and the honey was sticky, and tasted almost alive. Stiles ate until he literally couldn't eat anymore, his fingers shiny with fruit juices and honey when he stopped.

He looked up at Derek who was smiling softly, and felt momentarily embarrassed for the way that he had gorged himself. He opened his mouth to apologize, but didn't even get a word out before Derek lifted Stiles' hand to his lips, licking his fingers clean, one after another. "Sweet," Derek murmured, looking right into Stiles' eyes as he said it.

"So, shall we? I'm sure Melissa is eager to begin your training, I think that she'll like you." Derek grinned as he stood, and Stiles took a deep breath and wiped his hand on his clothing, briefly cursing Derek's tongue in his head.

"Yes, I'm ready. The sooner we start today, the sooner it can be tonight, yes?" Stiles quirked his lips in a smile, holding eye contact with Derek. Derek was silent for a moment, his jaw hanging open before he burst into laughter and rested his hand on Stiles' lower back.

"Yes, I definitely think that you'll be a good match for Melissa. I can hardly wait to hear about your day. Let's go." Derek kept his hand on Stiles' back the whole way to the great hall, and Stiles couldn't help but puff his chest out a little as they walked into the room and all eyes turned towards them. He knew he was just a slave, and that he was new and exciting, but a part of him that was larger than he'd like to admit believed Derek when he said that he was special. At least, he felt special as Derek bent to place a kiss on the top of his head before leaving him with Deaton and heading out to view the progress on his monument. For the first time in a long time, Stiles was excited to begin his day, and starting the day without dread in his heart was the biggest gift that Derek, the King could have given him.

Stiles didn't realize that he was staring until he felt a heavy hand on the back of his shoulder. He started a little, and turned to see Deaton looking down at him, the same hint of a smile on his face that Stiles had noticed in the King's rooms.

"He is a beautiful man, is he not?" Deaton's hand left Stiles' shoulder, and he crossed his arms in front of his chest, his forearms bulging enough to make Stiles shift nervously.

Stiles nodded, his voice coming out small as he spoke. "He is." He searched Deaton's face, looking for a hint as to why he had asked that question, but came up empty. Stiles had never been good at reading peoples' intentions, and he'd only gotten worse at it when the only intention he had seen in months had been malicious.

"I have been working for him for a long time. I was quite young when I was sent here, barely ten years older than the King himself. He is as close to a friend as I have, and I believe he would say the same of me. We know each other very well." Deaton looked down at Stiles, his head tilted just to one side as he took in Stiles' body language.

Stiles knew that he looked small and scared, curled in on himself, and he forced himself to straighten up, to look Deaton right in the eye. "I'm glad that he has a friend. Even powerful men need friends. Maybe they need them more than others."

"What I'm saying, is that I care for him. And for some reason, he cares for you." Stiles' cheeks flushed bright pink, but he squared his shoulders and waited for Deaton to continue. "You aren't the first slave that he has brought to his bed, far from it. And some of them gave him a lot of trouble, to put it mildly. It’s been a while for him. However, you are the first that he has asked to have trained to be his personal servant. You are also the first that I have ever seen him give that look to, the first that he has shown affection to outside of his rooms, maybe the first that he has genuinely cared about."

Deaton's gaze was hot on Stiles' skin as he looked over him from feet to head and back again, and Stiles lifted a hand to fidget with his hair, the scrutiny fizzling over his skin. "He is giving you an incredible gift, giving you this place in his life, and he truly believes that you deserve it. Do you believe that you deserve it, Stiles?"

Stiles dropped his hands from his hair and laced his fingers together, staring straight ahead at Deaton's chest and the tooled metal plate that hung there. "I believe that no one deserves to be treated the way that I was treated before. I do not know if I deserve all that the King is giving me, but I appreciate it, more than anything. I'll do my best to deserve it."

That now-familiar small smile quirked Deaton's lips, and he nodded sharply. "Stiles, the King is a great and powerful man, but he is also like everyone else in so many ways. His greatest weakness is his desire for love, when true love is not something that is in the stars for one such as him. He can never have it. Do not exploit that weakness." Stiles opened his mouth to speak, but bit his lip when Deaton raised his large hand. "I do not expect you to love him, and neither does he. We all know that cannot be, but it is a weakness that is easily exploited, and has been in the past. Just ... do not lie to him, Stiles. I can see your fondness for him growing already and all he needs is that, and your companionship."

Stiles nodded, swallowing heavily. He had certainly not expected to be asked by the King's personal guard to not break his heart. "I am fond of him. The King is a good man, and when we woke this morning he seemed to be happy. It's been a long time since I was happy, and knowing I was partly the reason for his happiness was a welcome feeling." Stiles let his mind drift for a few moments, searching for the few happy memories that came to him. There weren't many, and even fewer of them were recent, but he held onto each of them strongly. The memories were like anchors, and they kept him strong when he might otherwise have fallen.

His voice was firm when he spoke next, resolute. "I would do nothing to jeopardize that feeling, this opportunity, and besides...I know better than to play with love." Stiles had long ago accepted that love was something that just wouldn't fit into his life; something he now realized he and the King had in common. He let the thought of loving the King linger for a moment, impossible and beautiful in the back of his brain but he was pulled from his thoughts by Deaton's deep voice.

"You are smart, Stiles. Surprisingly so." Deaton's eyebrows were raised, and the tone of his voice was one of pleasant surprise. "So long as you continue to make him happy, you and I shall have no problem. In fact, I think I could grow to like you." He clapped his hand onto Stiles' shoulder and finally began to guide him down the halls and towards the bath. "I'm glad that the King wants you trained in the baths, I believe that Melissa will like you."

There was a gentle laughing undertone to Deaton's words, and Stiles stopped to turn and face him. "The King said that same thing to me. What has he gotten me into, exactly?" Stiles thought back to his time in the baths the previous day, and couldn't come up with a reason why they were so amused at his working with Melissa.

"Nothing you can't handle, I'm sure. You will just be good matches for one another." Deaton gripped Stiles' wrist, and pulled him down the hall. "Come, she does not stand for lateness. Among other things."

Stiles' legs struggled to keep up with Deaton's much longer ones, and even though he couldn't see the smile on Deaton's face, he swore he could hear it. Deaton left Stiles outside the door of the baths, knocking sharply on the door before turning and heading back the way they had come.

"Good luck." His voice was soft, but Stiles could hear the mirth in it. He held his hands in fists, frustrated that he seemed to be part of a joke that he was not in on, trying to think of a retort, when he heard someone clear their throat behind him. He turned slowly, and looked down at the small woman standing in front of him. He had been so scared the night before that he barely remembered what she looked like, but in his mind he was sure she wasn't so small. She barely came to Stiles' shoulder, her arms thin and wiry beneath the well-worn robes draped over her frame.

"You are late. I do not like lateness. Come, this way." For someone so small, she moved very quickly, and suddenly much of last night came flooding back to Stiles. He stopped himself from reaching out to touch anything, the sting of her hand on his arm suddenly remembered. "In the days to come, you will be on time. I have much knowledge, and I need to discover how much space your pretty head has for it. You may think that what I do is easy, but it is an art. Not for everyone."

Stiles chose to ignore the way that Melissa's eyes clearly showed her belief that it was not for him, and chose to focus on his lateness, which he wasn't even really to blame for. "But Deaton kept me -" Melissa's slightly crooked finger was suddenly pressed against Stiles' lips, and he again wondered how she moved so quickly.

"I do not care why you were late, but it won't happen again. It is a great irony that my name means 'patience', you will soon learn that." Melissa showed Stiles to a large chest with baskets resting on top of it and a table in front, and pulled up two small stools. "Sit, time to learn."

Stiles sat obediently in front of the chest, and tried to stop his jaw from falling open when Melissa removed the baskets and began to pull items from them. Never had he seen so many bottles and jars, and one of the baskets was full of instruments and tools for which Stiles couldn't even imagine a purpose. He sighed deeply, and wondered himself if there was enough space in his pretty head for everything that Melissa had to teach him. He felt a sharp swat against his shoulder and was jolted back to the room where Melissa was standing, one hand on her hip, the other thrusting out a slim piece of wood. Stiles looked at it, and realized it was a palette, with a small well to hold ink and a few simple reed pens slotted in next to it.

"I am told you can write. This is yours to keep. Today, we will start with the tools. Prepare your ink." Melissa turned to the cupboard and began rifling through the items, pulling the most important to the front. Stiles quickly slid open the smooth wooden box, not taking the time to see just how fine it was. He stood and walked to where there was a large basin of water, filling a small cup to dip his pens into. He quickly mixed up the ink in the well, and sat back down on his stool, pulling another in front of him to write on. Melissa handed him a few sheets of crude papyrus, and nodded sharply, picking up a small, curved blade and holding it out for Stiles to see.

A smile that Stiles thought was part menacing and part gleeful spread across her face, and she spoke. "Let's begin."

***

Derek could tell that the sun was blistering hot, even from under the shade set up by his men. As it was, a bead of sweat ran down his face and he lifted a hand to wipe it away before turning to speak to the man who was overseeing the building of his monument. He was large, large enough that even Derek was momentarily intimidated by his sheer size. His broad chest was bare, and his arms were well-marked with the scars of a man who spent his life working. His skin was dark and glossy, and his dark hair hung damp around his face. One of his hands rested at his waist, fingers just brushing the handle of the whip he had strapped there.

"You are Ennis, yes?" The large man nodded silently, sparing only a moment to glance at Derek before turning his eyes back to the slaves working to build the monument. "The work seems to be going well. Are the new slaves satisfactory?"

Ennis looked back to Derek for a moment, answering swiftly. "They are."

It took all of Derek's well-trained patience not to sigh loudly and roll his eyes as he watched Ennis turn his eyes back to the monument site, fingers tightening slightly on the whip handle. Derek was fairly certain that Ennis was just looking for a reason to use it, even though it seemed that there had been great progress made on the monument since the last time Derek had viewed it, not that he came out here often. Derek shifted in place, crossing his arms over his chest. He didn't like silence, especially the heavy kind like what was hanging in the air between him and Ennis. When Deaton sent him out here to observe, this was not what he was expecting.

"You certainly are a man of few words." He smirked just a little at the way that Ennis's shoulders squared, and he knew he was making the large man uncomfortable.

"Words distract. I cannot watch them and talk to you, just as they cannot work and talk to one another. Silence is the only way to ensure speed and quality of work." Ennis turned to face Derek, his face emotionless and his eyes blank. "I trust that you are satisfied? I must get back to my post." Without waiting for an answer, Ennis turned and walked purposefully towards the work site, pulling the whip from his belt and coiling it around his hand. Derek stood silently for several moments, watching Ennis shout at the slaves to work harder, faster. His voice was angry, but his face was the same blank mask he had turned on Derek just moments earlier. Derek was a man ruled by his emotions, and as many time as it had gotten him in trouble in the past, the idea of living like Ennis made a cold shudder run through him, despite the heat.

"He is a joy, is he not?" Derek turned, grateful as always to see Deaton standing behind him. Derek grinned widely, an expression that was mirrored by Deaton. It made Derek happy to know that Deaton felt freer around him, able to show his emotions more openly than he could elsewhere. "Truly. Where did we find him? He is surely unmatched."

"He does his job well, if harshly. I am thankful for every day that goes by that I do not have to attempt to talk to him however. I overheard your conversation, and I believe that is the most words he has uttered in a row in his entire life." Deaton reached out to place a hand on Derek's shoulder, his eyes twinkling. "You should consider yourself a lucky man. He was obviously taken by your beauty."

The laugh that flowed from Derek's chest was loud and easy, and he reached a hand up to squeeze Deaton's arm lightly. "What would I do without you?"

"I trust you would be miserable, King. You would have no one to talk to but yourself, no one else in this palace has the ear for your chatter that I do." He looked down at Derek with a serious expression on his face, but it was only seconds before it softened into a smile.

Derek felt lighter already, and moved to stand beside Deaton so he was still able to watch the slaves working. He had no idea if what they were doing was correct or not, but to his untrained eye, everything looked well. "Did Stiles get to Melissa?"

"He did." There was a tone to Deaton's voice that would have gone unnoticed by anyone who didn't know him as well as Derek.

"Deaton. What did you say to him?" Derek wasn't truly worried, but he did roll his eyes. He often felt that Deaton treated him too gently, almost like a child who needed protection, and it was exasperating.

"Nothing that he did not need to hear, King. I simply reminded him that he is lucky, and that you have given him a great gift." Deaton lifted his arms and crossed them across his chest before continuing. "I also warned him against hurting you. You know how you are, how easy you forget ..."

Derek sighed loudly, lifting a hand to rub over his face. "I am not some blushing bride who needs protecting, Deaton. And yes, I know how I am. I have foolish ideals when it comes to love, but that doesn't mean I've fallen for a slave."

"I am sorry, King. But I did see the way you looked at him this morning, and the way he looked back at you. All I am saying, is tread lightly. I said as much to him. The consequences -" Derek interrupted Deaton with a swiftly raised hand, shutting his eyes against the sudden onslaught of images in his brain. He was no fool; he was well aware of the consequences, but that didn't mean that he had to be heartless, and accept a life of loneliness. He wanted for Stiles to be a companion, a friend. Nothing more.

"I understand, Deaton. But please, in matters of my heart, I wish to be in charge." Derek looked over at Deaton and saw him nod, his posture relaxing, his arms dropping to his sides once more. Their arguments hadn't lingered since they were children, a fact that Derek was frequently grateful for. "While we are discussing Stiles, can you get a few things for him?"

"Of course. What would he like?" Derek smiled a little at Deaton's choice of words, the slight sarcasm a welcome change in tone.

"He'll need a few new garments. What he was given by Melissa is fine, but he'll need more than one. And he says he is musical, so I would like for him to have a lute, and perhaps a small harp. I think it would please us both if he could play again." Derek was looking straight ahead, but not at the work site. As usual, Deaton could see into his mind.

"Are you thinking you might wish to sing with him? It has been a long time." It had been a very long time, long enough that Derek was briefly surprised Deaton remembered it at all. Derek's father had put a stop to his singing when he was young, claiming that it was too emotional and feminine a hobby for the future King to have. Since then, Derek had done little more than hum under his breath, but he missed it every day.

"I miss it. My father is gone, and there is no harm in singing in the privacy of my rooms." Derek turned to look at Deaton then, as if searching his face for a challenge. Finding none, he pursed his lips and nodded. "Leave the items in my rooms, I'm going to stay here a while longer."

"As you wish, King. I should be able to collect everything in time for your evening meal." Deaton turned to walk away, and his duty carried him to the edge of the tent before he turned around and called for the King to turn towards him. "I hope that I will be invited to attend one of your performances, King. From what I remember, you are quite skilled."

The smile on Deaton's face was the genuine smile of a friend, and Derek returned it easily, a small amount of the tension in his chest loosening. "Perhaps, if you're lucky."

With that, Deaton turned and Derek was left alone with the heat and his thoughts. Until Stiles had mentioned that he played, the thought of singing again had never occurred to Derek, but now it was an idea he couldn't shake. He wasn't sure what it meant, but rather than give himself the chance to dwell on it, he strode out into the hot sun to get a better look at his monument.

***

If Stiles had been asked yesterday what the hardest thing he'd ever done in his life was, he would have had trouble picking only one experience. The march through the desert, the loss of his family, the beatings; all would have come to mind instantly. If he was asked that same question today, the answer would be simple. Next to him, there was a pile of papyrus, each sheet covered in notes that Stiles wasn't confident he would be able to read later. His eyes were dry and his vision was fuzzy from staring at the bottles and jars that Melissa had been shoving into his hands for hours, and his muscles were cramped and frozen in place from sitting on his low stool for long enough that the sun had now dipped below the high windows of the baths.

He had learned the ingredients of every single oil and cream and ointment in the cupboard, learned what they were used for and how to properly organize the baskets and chests. Melissa had demonstrated each of the tools on Stiles, leaving his forearm smooth and pink, hairless and smelling a little floral for Stiles' taste. His brain was full of information, so full that he was fairly certain if he had to learn one more thing today, his head might just explode. He felt a moment of joy when finally, Melissa shut the chest, straightening up slowly so that Stiles could hear the joints in her back pop.

"That is nearly everything. Do you understand?" She eyed him carefully, her gaze making Stiles squirm like he was a child.

He nodded, maybe a little too eagerly. "I think so. It's a lot to take in all at once, but with practice ..."

Melissa interrupted him sharply, jabbing her finger into his stack of papyrus. "Practice, and studying. Perhaps I will test you on your knowledge, yes?"

Stiles saw the way that Melissa's eyes sparkled, and he was mostly sure that she was kidding. Mostly. "I will study, promise." He couldn't help but smile at her; she was definitely a lot to take, but Stiles appreciated the way she treated him. She didn't speak slowly or leave anything out, and despite the quips and jabs, Stiles didn't think she thought of him as stupid. She told him he reminded her of her son, in a brief emotional moment. Stiles didn’t dare ask what had happened to him, but he could guess. He set his writing instruments down to the side and stood, feeling his joints creak, the ache in his muscles deepening as the blood rushed back into them. He stretched languidly, sighing a little as he stretched his arms above his head.

Melissa's finger was pointy as it jabbed into Stiles' ribs, and he only just managed to stop a squeak from sneaking out of his lips. "You must light the lamps, we are not yet done."

He nodded, and moved quickly around the room, the lamps bathing the room in soft, yellow light. "What is left to be learned today?" Stiles was a little bit curious, but mostly he was exhausted. It had been a long time since his brain had been engaged in such a way, and it was a different kind of tired than he was used to. He could push past physical tiredness, but this kind of mental tiredness was something else entirely.

"You have only learned about the ideas. You must now practice the techniques." Melissa gestured to the stone tub that Stiles had been bathed in the night before, and then to the fire smoldering in the corner. "The large rocks sitting on top of the coals are to be placed in the bottom of the tub, they will heat the water."

She provided no further instruction and simply sat down on the stool that Stiles had vacated, crossing her hands on her lap and watching. The rocks in the fire weren't large, but they were as hot as Stiles had expected, and getting them from the fire to the tub proved to be a challenge. He managed to wrestle them out of the flames and into a stone vessel, and walked them to the tub, very quickly. It only took half of them to cover the bottom of the tub, and Stiles assumed that the other would be used to reheat the water later, if necessary, so he pushed them back into the flames. Getting the water into the tub proved to be nearly as complicated, and he spilled nearly as much on the floor as he managed to get into the tub. It was fairly slow going, tub filling bucket by bucket from a large reservoir under the window. Stiles made a note to ask how they got the water here; he'd never seen any home with water so easily available inside, and he found a strange pleasure in being able to thrust his hands into the cool liquid.

When the tub was full, Stiles looked back to Melissa. "What comes next?"

"The water must be scented. Come here and choose a scent that you like." Melissa lifted one of the baskets and rested it on her lap. It was full of smaller bottles of oil, the ones that were used to scent water and creams, but not rubbed into skin on their own.

"Who is the bath for? Do they not have a preference?" Stiles' fingers slid gently over the bottles, reading the labels that had been lovingly handwritten.

"His preference is your preference, this time." She didn't say who Stiles would be practicing on, but she didn't have to. It should have been obvious from the beginning that it would be Derek; after all, Stiles was only here because he was learning how to be Derek's personal servant. That knowledge didn't stop Stiles' fingers from shaking as he lifted a bottle out of the basket, one filled with oil scented with cardamom and myrrh. He tipped it into the warm water, swirling his hand through it until the heady scent floated through the air. Stiles shut his eyes and breathed it in, allowing a small smile to curve up the corners of his lips.

"That smells wonderful." Derek's deep voice startled Stiles, but when he felt Derek's large hands on his hips he relaxed into the touch. Stiles was a bit ashamed in his senses that he hadn't heard Derek enter the room, but he pushed the thought from his mind and turned to face Derek.

"I'm glad you like it. It reminded me of you." Stiles looked up at Derek, his skin shiny with sweat from the heat of the sun, sand caked onto his feet and smudged across his chest. He felt his mouth go a little dry, and he was just moving to step even closer, to press his hands against Derek's skin when he felt cool fingers wrap around his wrist.

"You, come get your tools and oils. You, in the tub." Melissa's voice was firm enough that they both obeyed immediately, and Stiles had to suppress a laugh at the speed at which Derek shed his clothes and climbed into the warm water. His sigh was audible as he leaned back against the side, sinking in until only his head was above the water.

Melissa watched closely to make sure that Stiles selected the right products, and Stiles felt a sudden sense of pride run through him when she made a murmured sound of approval. He carried his small basket to the tub and stood just to the side of Derek's head, setting the basket on a stool at his feet. He shot a quick glance at Melissa who just nodded, the smile on her face giving Stiles all he needed to take the first step.

Combining the knowledge he'd learned that day with what he remembered Melissa doing to him the night before, Stiles started. He opened the pot of thick, creamy soap and scooped out a generous handful, smiling at Derek before reaching into the water to lift one of Derek's arms free. He moved slowly and methodically, spreading the soap over each of Derek's limbs one at a time, scrubbing it off with a soft cloth. He gave extra attention to Derek's feet and legs, making sure to get all the sand out from between his toes. Silently, he gestured to Derek to lean forward in the water and he spent a little longer than was strictly necessary working the soap into Derek's broad back and then his chest.

He grinned to himself when he heard Derek's sharp intake of breath as the cloth slid over Derek's nipple, and he did it once more just to hear the sound again. Stiles wrung the cloth out and draped it over the edge of the tub, reaching for another handful of the soap. He gently pushed down on Derek's shoulders until he tipped his head back, his hair streaming backwards in the water. Stiles fluttered the fingers on his free hands through the strands, absently grateful that Derek resisted the popular fashion of the wealthy and didn't remove his own hair and wear a wig. Stiles' fingers worked the soap into Derek's hair, and he scrubbed hard against Derek's scalp, feeling the grains of sand loosen and float away. He took the opportunity to lightly run his nails over Derek's scalp, pressing his fingers into Derek's temples and into the base of his skull, feeling Derek relax by degrees under his touch. By the time he was rinsing the soap from Derek's hair, Derek's breathing was so slow and even that Stiles thought he might have actually fallen asleep. He lifted Derek's hands one at a time, deftly paring and filing his nails until they were smooth and rounded, then repeating the process on Derek's feet. He pressed his thumbs hard into the arches of Derek's feet, working them in circles over the slick skin, sliding his thumbs up each of Derek's toes in turn.

He moved back to Derek's head, resting his hands gently on Derek's shoulders and speaking softly. "King, I am finished with your bath. Would you like to get out so that I complete the next step?" Stiles was certainly looking forward to the next step, to rubbing oil into Derek's warm, damp skin, working it into his stiff muscles.

Derek's eyes opened, the lids still drooping heavily. He lifted a hand from the water to clasp it over Stiles', locking their eyes together. "I think I would like that very much. Though I think I would prefer it if it was performed in private?" He didn't have to look at Melissa for her to know he was talking to her. Stiles didn't look over, but he heard her stand and walk towards the door, muttering under her breath about how Stiles better put the room back in order when they were done and how he'd better not let such things distract him from studying.

Derek chuckled softly, moving to stand up in the tub. "Did you get on with Melissa as well as I expected?" He stepped carefully over the edge of the tub onto a cloth Stiles had laid on the floor, lifting his arms so that Stiles could begin to dry him off with another cloth, pleasantly warm from sitting in a basket near the fire.

"We did, actually. She puts on a mask of hardness, but underneath that she is almost sweet." Stiles paused as he swiped the cloth over Derek's chest, tipping his head up. "I think she genuinely wants me to learn, and to be good at it, even though she'd never say that. It is a nice feeling." He went back to work, drying Derek quickly, lingering only when he had to drop to his knees to finish the job. Stiles swept the cloth softly over Derek's cock, letting his fingers play over the heated flesh briefly. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Derek's finger grip white-knuckled into the side of the tub and quickly dropped his hands to dry Derek's legs and feet.

Stiles stood, folding the now wet cloth and tossing it into an empty basket. He noticed a flush spreading across Derek's cheeks, and he was pretty sure there was one on his own face to match. He gestured towards a large table with a cloth spread over it, his voice soft and breathy when he spoke. "Lay down on the table, and I will finish your bath." Derek obeyed quickly, laying down on his stomach and pillowing his head on his arms. His legs were spread just a little, and Stiles swallowed heavily as he reached for the final jar of oil he'd placed in his basket.

It was scented with the same scent that he'd poured into the water, and he took a moment to just breathe it in. It felt luxurious to dip his fingers into it, but it felt even better to smooth them over Derek's skin, working the oil into every inch of his body. Stiles had learned that the oil served many purposes, in addition to the relaxing and stimulating scents. The desert air was dry, and that plus the burning sun took a toll on one's skin, something that Stiles' own dry and blistered skin could attest to. The oil helped protect the skin, kept it from drying out and did a fair job of protecting it from the harsh rays of the sun. Derek spent very little time in direct sunlight, and his skin was as close to perfect as Stiles had ever seen, but that didn't stop Stiles from taking his time.

He worked his fingers into Derek's shoulders and down his back, digging into the soft flesh of his lower back before continuing lower. Derek was making these little noises, soft sighs that promised to grow deeper, and Stiles massaged his fingers in harder to hear more of those noises. He smoothed his hands over the curve of Derek's ass, rubbing the oil in light circles until Derek started pushing back against him. This was perhaps a strange thing to be proud of, but Stiles couldn't help the feeling spreading in his chest as Derek nearly melted beneath him. Stiles reveled in the feeling of Derek's strong thighs beneath his hands, feeling in control of something for the first time in his life. He slipped his fingers between Derek's toes, working his thumbs into the arches of Derek's feet for a few moments before sliding his hands all the way of Derek's body, from his ankles to his neck.

Stiles nudged Derek until he rolled over, settling onto his back. Derek reached a hand out to wrap around Stiles’ wrist, and Stiles looked down to meet his eyes. "Stiles, I think that is enough." Derek's eyes were dark and a little predatory, but there was a quirk to his lips that made Stiles believe he could push a little.

"I think that Melissa would be disappointed in me if I didn't follow her instructions." Stiles dipped his fingers back into the oil, letting it drip onto Derek's chest before working it in. He moved quicker now, spreading the oil across Derek's chest, and feeling Derek's heart beat against his palms. His hands skated over Derek's belly, over his hips and down the front of his thighs, carefully avoiding Derek's cock which was hard and curved up against his stomach. Stiles’ breath was starting to come a little shallower, and his hands were shaking as he slid them down Derek's legs and over his feet. He moved to Derek's side, smoothing oil over his arm and hand, tangling their fingers together briefly before moving to the other side to repeat the process. This time when he reached Derek's hand, Derek's fingers tightened around his, and he let himself be pulled down for a kiss.

Derek's lips were eager against his, his tongue pushing hard into Stiles’ mouth. Stiles made a noise that was close to a whimper, nearly dropped to his knees when Derek's hand gripped around the back of his neck, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. Derek pulled back just far enough that he could speak, his voice soft and firm and, Stiles thought, maybe a little desperate.

"Get on the table, Stiles." Derek helped Stiles shed his clothes and then climb onto the table, his hands wrapped around Stiles’ slim hips as Stiles settled himself over Derek's thighs. He watched as Derek dipped his fingers into the pot of oil, trailing his slick fingers down Stiles’ belly before slipping between his legs to circle around his hole. He pushed in two fingers quick and easy, and Stiles tipped his head back and moaned, his back arching as Derek's fingers twisted inside him.

Before Stiles could even catch his breath, Derek's fingers were gone, and Stiles let himself be lifted up by Derek's strong hands. Derek's cock slid into him deliciously, and Stiles leaned forward to rest his hands on Derek's chest. They moved together slowly, Stiles rocking back and forth and Derek holding on, letting Stiles set the rhythm. They were surrounded by the soft light of the lamps and the spicy, earthy scent of the oils, and Stiles’ senses were buzzing.

Derek's hands slid up Stiles’ back, his fingers still slick with oil. He gently massaged the oil into the scars that were like a map on Stiles’ skin, and Stiles shivered, the nerves underneath the scars firing. He bent forward as far as he could, sweeping his lips over Derek's and trapping his cock between their slick bodies as he sped up his movements. Stiles could tell that Derek was close, his soft moans having turned into deep groans, his hips snapping up against Stiles’, pushing his cock in deeper and harder. He kissed Derek as deeply as he could for a few long seconds, and then sat back, arching his body as he rocked faster. His hair was falling into his eyes and his throat was stretched taut, and from the way that Derek's nail dug into his skin, Stiles was sure he liked what he saw.

Stiles dropped his hand to his own cock, wrapping his fingers around it loosely and stroking slowly, the opposite of the frantic way he was rocking on Derek's cock. He groaned at the touch, his teeth digging into his lower lip, and it only took seconds before he felt himself tumbling over the edge. He came hard, but not fast, and his climax felt like it rolled up from his feet before spilling out of him and onto Derek's stomach. His legs felt weak, and he needed to lean forward and rest his elbows against Derek's chest to keep himself from falling off the table.

Derek dug his fingers hard into Stiles’ hips and thrust up into him, his face going slack as he came deep inside Stiles, the sound that came out of his mouth something between a laugh and a sob. He pulled Stiles down to him and kissed him hard and deep, leaving them both breathless when he finally pulled away. He shifted over on the large table, making just enough room for Stiles to slide off of him and tuck up against his side. They were quiet for what felt like a long time, no noise in the room except for the sound of their breathing slowly returning to normal.

Stiles was the first to speak, his fingers tracing absent-minded patterns against Derek's skin. "So, do you think that my new job suits me?" He was smiling as he said it, his face pressed against Derek's warm, softly scented chest.

Derek hummed, as if he was considering the question, his hand curved lightly around Stiles’ hip. "I think that it does. In fact, I am considering bathing twice daily. Maybe even three times. It seems that you are a natural." He bent his head down to kiss the top of Stiles’ head, nosing through his soft hair before continuing. "As lovely as this is, I think a bed would be much better. Do you agree?"

Lifting himself up on an elbow, Stiles nodded. "I do, but I have to clean up first. It won't take long; you can head back to your rooms, and I will come when I'm finished." He swung his legs over the edge of the table and leaned down to press a quick kiss to Derek's lips before retrieving his garments from the floor.

As Stiles wrapped the cloth around his waist, Derek sat up, stretching languidly. "If it won't take long, I will wait for you. Can I help?" Stiles stopped in his tracks and turned to face Derek who was now standing, fastening his own cloth around his waist.

"You want to help?" Stiles was more than a little surprised, but Derek just nodded, a smile on his face. "Well ... you can gather up the cloths, and put them in that basket over there. I'll put all the bottles and jars away."

They worked together in peaceful silence, clinking bottles and whooshing fabric the only sounds in the room. When Stiles had everything put away exactly as it had been that morning, he turned to Derek who was carefully folding the last cloth and placing it on the pile before turning a wide grin to Stiles. Stiles smiled back, not wanting to tell Derek that it hadn't been necessary to fold the dirty cloths if it meant that smile might leave his face.

Derek stood easily, wiping his palms on his clothes and reaching a hand out to Stiles. "Ready for bed? I suspect Deaton will have a lovely evening meal laid out for us when we get there."

Frankly, Stiles couldn't wait to see what supper looked like after the morning meal, and he reached out to twine his fingers with Derek's. "Ready."

***

The weeks passed quickly, in a blur that in his less guarded moments, Stiles thought of as blissful. He still woke early, before Derek, but that gave him time to see to all of the things that were now part of his job. When the sun just barely began to peek through the windows, he rolled quietly out of bed, the small, sleepy murmur of protest escaping from Derek putting a smile on Stiles’ face. Stiles went to work, quietly setting out fresh clothes for Derek to wear, and placing them on the chest at the foot of the bed. He polished Derek's usual head piece and amulet before turning to the drawer full of jewelry to select a few different pieces for him to wear as well. The wealthy always wore a large amount of jewelry, but Derek wore enough that Stiles sometimes wondered how he even lifted his hands for all the rings.

When all the jewelry was sparkling and resting on a soft cloth next to Derek's clothes, Stiles walked softly from the bedroom and into Derek's sitting room. He quickly tidied up the mess they'd left the night before, Stiles’ instruments and sheets of papyrus strewn across the room. They'd been up late the night before, Stiles’ nimble fingers playing over the strings of the lute, pausing only to scribble down what he'd just played so he could remember it. Derek had hummed along, and Stiles could tell that his voice was beautiful. He'd tried to get Derek to sing along, but Derek had just smiled and bent forward, lifting Stiles' hand to his lips. Even now, Stiles' eyes fluttered shut as he remembered the feeling of Derek's tongue sliding around his fingers and the sound the lute had made as it tumbled to the floor. Stiles shook his head, clearing the memory from it so he could get back to work.

By the time Derek awoke, Stiles had cleaned up the room, and been to the kitchen and back. He'd set out a simple but plentiful breakfast, and was sitting on his stool, lightly strumming his lute. He saw Derek lean against the door frame out of the corner of his eye, but he finished the tune he was playing before looking up, an easy smile on his face. Derek was still naked, his arms crossed loosely over his chest as he grinned and walked towards Stiles.

"Good morning. That was lovely." He bent to kiss the top of Stiles' head before sitting in the stool opposite him and filling a goblet with watered wine. Stiles took that as an invitation to pour himself some wine and help himself to the food. In the past few weeks he'd put on a little weight, and he could no longer count his ribs through his skin, a very welcome change.

Stiles swallowed a mouthful of bread and honey before answering, licking his fingers clean. "Thank you. I'm glad you liked it. I enjoy playing for you." It had been a long time since Stiles had played the lute, but as soon as Derek had placed it in his hands, it was like he'd never stopped. The music just flowed out of him, and Stiles was nearly as grateful for that as he was for the food.

Derek nodded, shifting slightly on his stool. He was obviously thinking as he slowly chewed a fig, and Stiles thought that Derek might actually be nervous. "Stiles, you know how much I enjoy your playing for me." Stiles nodded, staying silent so that Derek could continue. "Do you think you might like to play for others?"

"Others? What do you mean?" Stiles took a rather large gulp of wine, his fingers fiddling with the rim of the goblet when he put it down. They'd talked about Deaton coming to listen, and Stiles had no problem with that. He'd grown to consider the guard a friend. But if Derek was asking him like this, that couldn't be what he was talking about.

Derek took a small sip of wine, and reached across the table to rest his hand on Stiles'. "Tomorrow evening, some important people will be visiting. Very important people, coming from far away. I would like it if you would play for them at the supper that we will be sharing." Derek's fingers tightened just a little around Stiles', and Stiles smiled softly.

"Of course I will play for them. Actually, I would love to play for them." Until he'd said it, he didn't realize just how much he meant it. Music had always been something that was just between him and his family, and now between him and Derek, but the idea of playing it for others...it made Stiles' fingers itch to pick up his instrument.

"Excellent! I should have asked you earlier, but I know you will do wonderfully." Derek's smile was wide and infectious, and Stiles let himself be pulled into a tight hug. "I'm going to get you something special to wear, I want you to look beautiful." Just as Stiles felt his cheeks flush and he tipped his head down, still not feeling as beautiful as Derek thought him to be, Derek's fingers brushed his cheek softly. "Stop. You are beautiful, and you know that. Or do I need to show you once more?"

Stiles rolled his eyes at the teasing lilt in Derek's voice, but he found himself laughing anyways. "We do not have time for you to show me right now. I have to meet Melissa, and you must get dressed. I understand Deaton is taking you somewhere today, he had me set out some special robes for you." Though Stiles had long since finished his training under Melissa, he still spent most days with her in the baths. To no one's surprise but his own, they each seemed to genuinely enjoy one another's company, and though she never said it, Stiles suspected Melissa appreciated no longer being the only one in the baths.

Derek stood then, pulling Stiles with him towards the bedroom. "You are too good, Stiles. I am the King, and I am allowed to be late. And as you are with me, you are also allowed to be late." Stiles tried to argue, but it was hard with the way that Derek's lips slid down his throat and his fingernails scraped over his chest. Derek's hands slid under the loose robe that Stiles wore and were just pushing it off his shoulders when a sharp rap came on the door behind them.

"King, are you ready?" Deaton's clear voice boomed from behind the door, and Stiles couldn't help but chuckle at the groan that rumbled in Derek's chest.

"I need a few moments, Deaton. I will meet you in the hall." Derek's hands continued their path down Stiles' back, and Stiles bit his lip to suppress his grin. Derek could get away with a lot of things as the King, but he suspected that Deaton wasn't going to sway on this one.

Stiles' suspicions were confirmed when he heard the door open to Derek's sitting room. "I think that I will just wait here for you. It won't take you long to get dressed, and I have not eaten yet this morning." Derek groaned again, this time stepping back from Stiles and raking a hand through his hair.

"He is exhausting." He put on an air of exasperation as he spoke, but Stiles could tell it was the kind of exasperation that only comes with great fondness. Derek dressed quickly, lifting his arms for Stiles to fasten the belt around the waist of his robes. Stiles stood on his toes to settle the gold band around Derek's forehead, and then stepped back, his hands resting on his hips.

"He may be, but if it wasn't for him, you would never leave this room." Stiles half-grinned at Derek, the look on Derek's face clearly telling him that he wouldn't mind that in the least. He reached out and grabbed Derek's hand, the heat of his skin contrasting with the cool of the rings he had just put on. "Come, we both must get to work."

Derek followed him without even a little hesitation, but he did lean down and speak close to Stiles' ear. "Tonight will you let me show you how beautiful you are?" Stiles felt himself flush right to the tips of his ears. He assumed Derek had meant for that to be soft, but from the way Deaton stuffed bread into his mouth to muffle a chuckle, it was obvious that Derek had spoken in more than a whisper.

Stiles quirked an eyebrow at Derek, and spoke with only a little laughter in his voice. "We'll see. If I don't get to Melissa soon, I may not be around this evening." He adjusted his robe on his shoulders and cinched his belt tighter before heading out of the room, pausing to nod briefly at Deaton, matching half-smiles on both of their faces. He lingered in the hallway for a few moments, his fingers just barely resting on the door frame as he listened to the snatches of conversation he could catch.

"He is good for you, King. You made a wise choice in him." Deaton's voice was clear, and even when it wasn't loud, it carried. Stiles couldn't pretend that Deaton’s approval meant nothing to him, and he bent his head a little and smiled to himself. When he turned away from the door to head to the baths, he found his fingers tapping rhythmically against his thigh, playing out a song he had never heard before. He couldn't remember the last time he had done that, and it was a habit he welcomed back.

That evening when Derek arrived in the baths, he didn't linger. Normally, Derek's baths took twice as long as they should, and often Stiles ended up in the tub with him. Tonight however, Derek seemed on edge; not nervous exactly, but excited, like there were words dancing on the end of his tongue, just waiting to tip over the edge. Stiles didn't push, he just moved quickly, his fingers only lingering a little on some of his favorite places of Derek's body. When he helped Derek over the edge of the tub, Derek surprised him by taking the cloth from him and drying his own body swiftly. He barely took the time to shrug on his robe before he grabbed Stiles' hand in his own and dragged him from the room.

Stiles followed, more than a little confused at Derek's haste. "Derek, you did not let me oil your skin." He spoke softly, his curiosity finally getting the best of him as well as his disappointment at being stopped before his favorite part of bathing Derek. "Why are you in such a rush this evening?"

Derek turned briefly towards Stiles, his smile wide and bright. "I have a surprise for you. Now come!"

Stiles wondered what could possibly be waiting for them that required such a hurry, but he decided that he liked the look of joy and a little mischief on Derek's face enough to push that wonder from his mind. Whatever Derek had for him, it would be good. It always was.

When Derek pushed open the door to his sitting room, Stiles was expecting to see something wildly different, something that would make his jaw drop. What he saw, was their usual supper laid out on the table, the room lit with the same lamplight as always. Stiles followed Derek into the room, letting himself be pushed down onto the stool he always sat on. He crooked a questioning eyebrow at Derek, opening his mouth to speak, but Derek just pressed a finger to his lips and smiled.

"Eat first, surprise later." Derek sat down across from Stiles and squeezed his hand briefly before handing him a plate. Stiles hesitated for a moment before smiling back and taking the plate, filling it eagerly. He had finally stopped eating like every meal might be his last, but when the food was this good, he still found himself eating more than he needed to. The conversation and the wine flowed easily, like it always did, and by the time Stiles was full, his head was more than a little fuzzy with drink.

Stiles wiped his hands and face with a cloth, dropping it purposefully on his empty plate. He grinned at Derek, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the table. He was feeling a little bold, and he finally let his curiosity win out over the parts of his brain telling him to be patient. "I've finished eating. Does that mean I get my surprise now?"

Derek lifted an eyebrow, but a smile quirked the edges of his lips. "Well, I suppose you have been patient. Come, it's in the bedroom." Derek paused briefly after he stood, turning back to Stiles. "It's in the bedroom, but only because that was the easiest place to hide it from you. I promise this isn't entirely about sex."

Stiles stood and followed, and bit back a response about hoping it was at least partly about sex. When Derek opened the door to the bedroom, the first thing Stiles saw was a wooden box resting in the middle of the bed. It was carved with hieroglyphs, but it wasn't elaborately decorated. The wood shone in the low lamplight, and it felt smooth under his finger when he moved forward to touch it. He turned to look at Derek who nodded, and then he slipped his fingers under the latch. He flicked it open, and when he looked inside the box, his eyes widened.

On top rested a pair of gold bracelets, not as grand as Derek's cuffs of course, but as wide as three of Stiles' finger and shiny enough that Stiles could see his reflection as he lifted them. They were lightly engraved with hieroglyphs, and when Stiles read them he realized that every character symbolized protection and ownership. He shuddered a little at the thought of that, of himself wearing so many things that clearly marked him as Derek's in front of others. He set the bracelets to the side, and turned his attention back to the box, removing the next set of items.

He lifted out an amulet inset with a single large black stone, shiny and deep looking. Stiles guessed by the length of the chain that it would hang low on his chest, and it felt pleasantly heavy when he let it rest in his hands. Next, was a pair of earrings made of carved stone. They were black, and obviously intended to match the amulet. Stiles' hands were shaking as he set them to the side, more than a little overwhelmed at the generosity as well as the ownership that Derek was clearly showing. He felt Derek's hand rest heavy and warm on his hip, his presence grounding.

Stiles had reached the bottom of the box and the only thing remaining was a new kilt. His breath caught in his throat as Stiles lifted the fabric from the box, feeling it slip and slide over his skin. It was just as fine as the ones Derek himself wore, and when the light caught it, it shimmered slightly, a golden thread woven through the wheat-colored fabric. Stiles lifted it to his face and rubbed the fabric over his cheek for a moment before he caught himself, dropping his hands again.

"It's beautiful, all of it. Thank you." Stiles folded the cloth carefully and set it gently back in the box, placing all of the jewelery on top of it before latching the box again. He turned around to face Derek, wrapping his arms around Derek's waist.

"It is for you to wear tomorrow night, when you play for my guests. I want to show off your beauty." Derek leaned down and brushed a soft kiss across Stiles' forehead, smiling against the skin. "Tomorrow, you won't be going to work in the baths. You and I are going to sleep late, and then we are going to get ready together. I can't wait to see you all dressed up; you will be amazing."

Stiles knew his cheeks were flushed, and he wasn't sure if he'd ever get used to hearing Derek talk about him that way. He looked up at Derek, tightening his arms to pull Derek closer. "I will try."

"That is all I ask." Derek bent to kiss Stiles again, this time on the lips. He pushed him backwards onto the bed, and Stiles remembered the box just moments before he got a corner underneath his ribs. They both chuckled softly, and Stiles moved to place the box gently on the floor. He ran his fingers over the carvings on the lid before turning back to Derek, and letting himself be pushed down into the cushions, Derek's fingers like flames licking hotly down his body.

Later that night, as Derek slept sated and heavy next to him, Stiles rolled to his side and reached down to open the box. It was dark in the room, and he couldn't see, but his fingers easily found the soft fabric and rubbed against it. He felt a little ridiculous as he wrapped the fabric around his fingers and his wrist, but it was cool and it was soft, and Stiles was asleep before he could worry too much about looking silly.

Stiles didn't manage to sleep late, his habit of waking up with the sun not easily broken. But he did stay in bed, rolling onto his side to tuck himself closer to Derek's warmth. Derek sighed deeply and turned in his sleep, tossing an arm over Stiles and holding him close. Stiles just laid there for what felt like ages, his face pressed against Derek's chest, breathing in deeply. He always smelled so good, and even though Stiles knew what the smell was and was the one who applied it to Derek's skin, that didn't stop him from smelling it and just thinking Derek.

Finally, Stiles had enough of waiting, and he thought that the sun was high enough in the sky that Derek wouldn't be too mad at Stiles for waking him up. Stiles snuck out from under Derek's arm and tossed the cover down to the foot of the bed. Derek snuffled a little in his sleep, but he settled quickly, wrapping his arm around the pillow that Stiles had vacated. Stiles smiled to himself, and slid down the bed, placing a soft kiss to the point of Derek's hipbone before darting his tongue out to lap over Derek's cock. It was half-hard in his sleep, and Stiles chose to believe that Derek was thinking of him.

He moved slow, taking his time and in no rush to wake Derek up. Derek had shifted a little, rolling onto his back, his legs falling open so that Stiles could settle himself between them. His breath was still coming slow and even, only catching when Stiles' tongue hit a particularly sensitive spot. Stiles slid his mouth down Derek's cock, letting it bump against the back of his throat, pushing against the sensitive tissues. He did it again and again, swirling his tongue over the head every time he pulled back. He felt Derek's hips begin to buck, and when Derek's fingers twined through his hair he knew Derek was awake.

Stiles pulled all the way to the head of Derek's cock and looked up at him, Derek's eyes heavy-lidded and still sleep-blurred despite the haze of lust drifting through them. Stiles kept his eyes locked on Derek's as he slid his mouth back down Derek's cock, and if he could have, he would have grinned at the way Derek's eyes rolled back in his head and then fluttered shut. His mouth was open in a silent cry, and seconds later Stiles felt the hot rush of Derek's orgasm hit the back of his throat. He swallowed, lapping his tongue gently over the sensitive flesh of Derek's cock until Derek's hand wrapped around his arms and hauled him up the bed. Derek's tongue was eager in Stiles' mouth, and he kissed Stiles thoroughly until they were both breathless.

"Good morning." Stiles spoke with a grin on a face, feeling more than a little pride at the flush on Derek's cheeks and the daze that still clouded his eyes.

"Indeed it is." Derek held Stiles close, kissing the top of his head. "I won't even chide you for your inability to sleep in, that was far better than sleeping late."

"Perhaps I'll start waking you more often. I do get lonely in the mornings." Stiles shifted until he could rest his chin on Derek's shoulder, one arm thrown over Derek's chest. His smile was easy, and his eyes sparkled just a little. "Though waking you up this way does make me hungry."

Derek laughed, and Stiles welcomed the sound. "Come, let's eat, and then we will begin to get ready for this evening. My guests will be here before the usual evening meal, so we will bathe earlier." He climbed out of the bed, and Stiles followed, twining their fingers together. Now that Stiles had been reminded of what that evening was to bring, he had to admit to feeling a nervous flutter in his belly. He knew that any of the pressure he was feeling was put upon by himself, since Derek had been nothing but sure that Stiles would be wonderful. He pushed his worries to the back of his mind, and tried to relax, giving himself over to all that Derek had planned.

Hours later, the sun was just beginning to dip in the sky and Stiles felt loose-limbed and pink all over, the bath he'd had even more thorough than the one he'd had that very first night. He wanted to slip into bed and feel the cool sheets sliding over his clean, smooth skin, his eyes threatening to slip shut even as he sat down heavily in one of the chairs in Derek's sitting room. He let his head rest against the back of the chair, a soft smile curling his lips as he looked at Derek through drooping eyes.

"No falling asleep just yet, I'm not done with you." Stiles watched as Derek walked to the table that held his jewelry and mirror, and came back towards Stiles clutching a small pot of kohl and a brush in his hand. He pulled another chair over to sit directly in front of Stiles, reaching out to run his fingers softly down Stiles' jaw. With his other hand he dipped the brush in the pot of kohl and lifted it to Stiles' face. "Close your eyes, but don't fall asleep."

Derek's voice was teasing, but Stiles didn't think Derek knew just how close he actually was to drifting off. Derek's gentle fingers on his cheek weren't helping, and Stiles let himself lean into the touch just slightly. He jumped a little when he felt the first touch of the brush against his eyelid, but when Derek stroked a thumb over his cheek, he still and relaxed into the touch. Stiles suspected that Derek was taking longer than was necessary to apply the kohl, but he didn't care. The sweeping caress of the brush against the thin skin of his eyelid felt well, and Stiles let Derek's finger turn his face this way and that way, making sure that the kohl rimming his eyes was even.

"Open, and look up." Derek was even gentler as he ran the brush underneath, careful to get none of the kohl in Stiles' eyes. His thumb wiped up a smudge, and Stiles had to fight the urge to let his eyes flutter shut at the soft touch. Derek sat back to look at his work, and Stiles shifted a little under the intensity of his gaze. Suddenly, Derek's eyes lit up brightly, and he smiled as he reached for Stiles' face again. Stiles felt the brush gliding slowly over his skin, swiping away from his eyebrow and then low underneath his eye. He didn't know what Derek was doing, but he enjoyed watching the way that Derek's tongue poked out from between his lips as he worked, his brow set firmly in concentration.

Derek sat back again, tipping his head to the side, his eyes changing from examining to admiring. "Perfect." His voice was soft, and Stiles really wanted to see what he'd done. He said as much, but was answered with a shake of Derek's head. "Not till you're all done. I want you to see everything at once." Stiles just nodded, sitting back and breathing a little harder than he should. Derek stood and walked into the bedroom, returning quickly with the small box he'd given Stiles the night before.

"Stand up." Derek's orders were soft, which made them even easier to obey. Stiles was still feeling loose and pliant, but a tension began to grow in the base of his spine as he stood and let Derek push his robe from his shoulders. Derek started with the kilt, wrapping the fine fabric low on Stiles' hips and fastening it with a glittering pin. Stiles let one of his hands drop to finger the soft fabric again, so smooth he nearly had trouble gripping it. The bracelets were slipped onto Stiles' wrists, and the necklace was dropped over his head, adjusted until it lay underneath the collar that always rested against his collarbones. Derek pushed the heavy stone earrings through Stiles' ears, and Stiles swung his head a little to feel the pleasant weight of them.

Derek leaned forward to sweep a soft kiss across Stiles' lips and whispered against them, his breath warm and fragrant. "Beautiful." His hands were strong on Stiles' shoulders, and Stiles let himself be moved to the mirror. It was small, and he could only see his face, but that was enough. The kohl lined his eyes thickly, making them look huge and making the brown look much more interesting that it usually did. What made Stiles' breath catch in his throat a little was his left eye. Derek had painted a design around it, swirling and swooping lines that extended nearly to his hairline and curved down below his eye. He turned his head slightly, the fingers of one hand resting just beneath his eye on his cheekbone.

Stiles recognized the symbol as that of the god Horus, a symbol that could be found all over Derek's palace, and engraved into the small wooden box Derek had given him. It symbolized protection and a kind of power, and Stiles immediately recognized what Derek had done. Almost more than the collar that rested against his throat, this symbol was a clear sign that Stiles was protected, that he belonged to someone. Derek's arms wrapped around him from behind, and Stiles caught Derek's eyes in the mirror. He realized that Derek's face was still clean and fresh from the bath, and he was wearing no jewelry. Stiles realized that it was Derek who had done this for him. Derek, the King had knelt before him and painted his face, had helped him to put on his jewelry and to dress. For a brief moment, Stiles let himself imagine what it would be like to live like that all the time, to always have someone to help him.

He lived in that fantasy for only a few moments before turning around in Derek's arms. "It's your turn now, I must get you ready." Derek nodded, and Stiles led him to sit in the same chair Stiles had recently vacated. He applied kohl around Derek's eyes with hands that only shook a little, and then he lead Derek back to the mirror to dress him. It was the first time since Stiles had begun working for Derek that he had to dress him for an official event, and it was strange to settle the large and elaborate headpiece over Derek's hair. Stiles stepped back when he was finished and took in Derek's appearance, shutting his eyes briefly when he flashed back to his first moments in the palace, being shoved down on his knees in front of the golden man who sat on the throne.

That day, Stiles had been scared of the King, possibly more scared than he'd ever been in his life. But alongside that fear had been fascination, fascination with the King's eyes and with the way his skin shone in the light of the palace. Today, as Stiles stood before that man, the man he now knew as Derek, dressed as fine as he'd ever been dressed, he no longer felt fear. The fascination remained, but it was tempered with all the things he now knew about Derek, with the knowledge of him as a person and more than an elaborately decorated ideal. He saw the twinkle in his eyes, standing out brightly against the goal, he saw the playful quirk of his lips and he saw Derek's outstretched hand, rings glinting in the lamplight. As Stiles reached out to take Derek's hand, he realized what he felt was comfort. It wasn't total, and there was a part of him that thought that feeling should worry him, but he ignored that part and twined his fingers with Derek's, grabbing his lute with his other hand.

The walk to the great hall wasn't long, and when they reached it, Derek bent to brush his lips over Stiles' forehead before directing him to a small raised dais in the corner. Stiles settled himself amongst the cushions, took one last look at Derek as he took his seat in the polished throne, and began to play.

Stiles' fingers moved deftly over the strings of the lute, and once the guests began arriving it didn't take him long to ignore their questioning glances. He let himself get lost in the music, playing a lilting melody that rose and fell, filling in the gaps when the conversation around the table paused. Stiles could hear much of it, but affairs of state went over his head, and he didn't care to try to understand. His eyes fell shut as the men gathered to sit around a large table for the meal, and when they opened, he noticed a small crowd had formed around his corner. His fingers fumbled for a moment on the strings, but his eyes found Derek's and his rhythm came back to him.

He played with his eyes locked on Derek, watching as he spoke softly to the crowd of men surrounding the dais. Stiles heard his name a few times, and realized that Derek was telling the men about him. He listened more closely, hearing words like mine and so good and obeys and felt an absurd sense of pride fill his chest. The music he was playing picked up in pace, the melody changing with what he'd heard Derek say. Stiles watched as Derek walked towards him, only stopping the music when Derek's hand came to rest on his shoulder. Derek looked down at him, an unasked question on his face, and Stiles answered automatically.

"Yes, Derek?"

Derek's eyes went wide, but it wasn't until Stiles heard the shocked gasps of the crowd behind him that he realized what he'd done. He began to hear other words, words like weak and out of control and no respect, and he realized they were directed at Derek. At the King, the man whose power he had just undermined with one slip of the tongue.

Stiles' heart was racing, hammering against his ribcage and he thought it might fly out of his mouth when he saw the way that Derek's eyes narrowed as they looked down at him.

"To my rooms. Wait for me there." The King squared his shoulders and turned away from Stiles, nodding for one of the guards to come and take him away. As the large man's hand curled around Stiles' arm and he was heaved onto his feet, he tossed one final look in King's direction. Instead, he was met with the stares of a dozen very important men, all looking at him with a strange mixture of glee and disgust. Stiles' heart stopped hammering and he felt as though it had fallen to his feet. His skin went cold, and the reality of his mistake washed over him in waves. Moments later he was tossed to the floor in King's sitting room, and he stayed there, curling into himself in the darkened room to wait.

***

The door opened and shut, quietly and resolutely, and Stiles flinched. That quiet control was somehow worse than slamming and shouting would have been. Stiles stayed where he was, curled into a ball on the floor, as the King moved unfalteringly through the room lighting each of the lamps until the room was bathed with a soft light. Stiles felt the King move towards him and stand at his feet, casting a dark shadow over Stiles' frame.

"On your knees." Stiles scrambled to move quickly, an edge to King's voice that he had never heard before. It scared him, and Stiles was glad to cast his eyes downward to the floor as King continued to speak.

"Do you understand what you have done? What you could have cost me?"

The King walked around Stiles' body, close but not touching.

"They see me as weak, as too concerned with love and emotions, and I have been fighting against that since I took the throne." His fingers gripped Stiles' chin tightly and yanked his face upward. Stiles flinched again when he saw the coldness creeping into the King's eyes, King's face nearly unrecognizable. He couldn't possibly imagine that this man before him was Derek, the man who just hours ago had tenderly stroked a brush across his face, marking him.

His fingers tightened on Stiles' chin until Stiles thought distantly that his jaw might break. "With one word, with my name, you have undone so much of that struggle." King sighed deeply and shakily, dropping his hand from Stiles' face. "You have grown too comfortable with me if you can forget where you are. We have become very close in these past weeks, but perhaps you have forgotten the simplest fact of our relationship."

Stiles started to shake his head no, wanting so badly to speak, to apologize even if he knew it was too late for that. He was quieted by King's palm connecting sharply with his cheek. Stiles rocked on his knees and bit down into his lip, but he didn't cry out. He felt a traitorous tear slip from his eye, and King's thumb reached out to sweep it away, smudging the mark of protection he had so painstakingly drawn on Stiles' face earlier. The symbolism was not lost on Stiles, and he dropped his head even farther, his stomach falling to his feet.

He heard the King walking away, and when he returned Stiles lifted his eyes just enough to see the trailing end of a leather whip. Stiles knew what was coming and he tried not to shudder, but he couldn't help the slight shiver that shook his shoulders when Derek trailed the tip over his back. He could feel it catch on the raised scars that already criss-crossed his skin. The scar tissue made everything feel muffled, but the skin around the scars was so sensitive that Stiles shuddered as the whip traced over it again and again. He thought vaguely that it was like King was stroking him, petting him with the whip, and Stiles' teeth dug into his lip hard enough to draw blood at the thought.

"I hoped that I would never have to do this again, and never to you." Stiles would swear he could actually hear regret in the King's voice, and he clung to that slight hint that King didn't want to do this as much as Stiles didn't want it to happen. "You were so good, so good for so long. But I can't ignore this, Stiles. I just can't. I am the King, and I must act like the King."

The first crack of the whip was sharp against Stiles' shoulders and he cried out loudly before he could stop himself. There was a brief pause that Stiles could feel hanging in the air, and then the whip came down again and again. Stiles cried out a few more times, and then went silent, the whip cutting into his skin and shocking the breath out of him. He lost count of how many times the whip came down against his skin, but when the King stopped, he could feel the warm trickle of blood running down his back. Stiles breathed heavily, deep gulping gasps of air that made him wonder how long he'd been holding his breath. Another tear trickled down his cheek, but one tear was nothing to be ashamed of when he thought of what his back must look like.

"Do you understand why I'm doing this, Stiles? Tell me why." The tip of the whip dragged across Stiles' back, and he whimpered when it touched open skin. The King pulled the whip back and cracked it, and Stiles jumped even before he felt just the tip bite into his back. Somehow that sharp pinprick of pain was worse than the wide slashes he'd felt before. He had to drop his head to rest against the floor for a few seconds until his breath came back to him, even if it was still uneven.

Stiles spoke softly and shakily, his voice sounding as if he'd been swallowing sand. "I made a mistake, I called you your name. I over-stepped my boundaries and did not respect you in front of your peers." He glanced up quickly, but flicked his eyes back to the floor when he saw the look on the King's face. A grim smile twisted his lips, and his eyes were hard and steely.

He made a pleased sound in the back of his throat at Stiles' answer, and the whip moved from Stiles' back. It was almost worse to be able to see the blood-stained leather then it was to feel it. "Good. You won't make that mistake again, will you?"

Stiles shook his head quickly, his hair falling sweaty and stringy into his eyes. "No, King. I will not." Stiles was telling the truth as he spoke. He would never again use Derek's name in public, and in this moment he wasn't even sure if he wanted to use it privately. He knew that was a rash decision, and that the King was more than justified in what he had just done, but Stiles still felt a disconcerting ache in his chest at the harsh way he was being spoken to. He had been treated far worse, of course, but coming from the man whose bed he had shared, it felt like a kind of betrayal.

Stiles knew that was exactly the kind of thinking that had gotten him where he was, on his knees, bleeding and broken. He knew that the King was right to punish him, and that he would be right in casting Stiles out. That was why he was surprised to see the King drop to his knees, the whip falling from his hand and his fingers moving to tip Stiles' face up.

The eyes Stiles saw were Derek's again, the unfamiliar coldness replaced with sadness. "I'm so sorry I had to do that, Stiles. So sorry." Derek's fingers were gentle as they wiped the tears and sweat from Stiles' cheeks, and he bent to place a soft kiss to Stiles' lips. Stiles jerked away from him, his heart hammering in his chest. He looked at Derek with wide, fearful eyes and the look he found on Derek's face made him want to leap off the tallest structure he could find.

Derek looked confused, as if he could genuinely not understand why Stiles had pulled away from his touch. His eyes were wet, and his mouth was open in a small expression of surprise. "Stiles, let me tend to your back, and then we will go to bed. In the morning, we can talk. We have to talk."

Stiles shifted until he was sitting cross-legged on the floor, gritting his teeth at the pain he felt when his muscles shifted. "King, may I make a request?" Derek flinched at the use of his title and the formal tone of Stiles' voice, but he nodded for Stiles to continue. "I think that I would like to sleep alone tonight. I will sleep on the floor in this room, if that's alright with you."

Derek's back stiffened, and he rose to his feet. "Fine. That is ... fine. I will bring you a pillow and blanket." He left the room for only moments, and returned with a thin pillow and a blanket from his bed. When he bent to hand them to Stiles, his lips brushed Stiles' ear and he spoke softly. "You are allowed to be stubborn tonight. In the morning, we will still talk, and I will care for your wounds."

When Derek had stood back up, Stiles nodded. He would need someone to clean the wounds from the whip, and even though he knew it should be done tonight he couldn't bring himself to let Derek's hands touch him again in this moment. He watched Derek move about the room extinguishing the lamps, and then enter his bedroom, shutting the door behind him. Stiles lay face-down on the blanket, knowing better than to let it touch the open wounds on his back. The pain had dulled into an ache, but it flared up like a warning every time Stiles took a deep breath. Sleep did not come easily to him that night, and when it did it was full of confused dreams that did nothing to ease Stiles' mind.

The morning came too quickly for Stiles, and he was surprised to be awoken by a fully-dressed Derek, up well before his usual hour. His hand was gentle on Stiles' shoulder, but Stiles couldn't help the way he pulled away from the touch. Derek's face looked worn, and his teeth dug into his lower lip as he let his eyes wander over Stiles' back.

"Please Stiles, let me tend to you. Your back..." Derek's voice trailed off, and Stiles bit back a comment about how it was Derek that had made it look the way it did. Stiles knew that he had broken the one rule that Derek had set for him and that the punishment had fit the transgression, but the frustration and the disappointment remained. Derek was equally to blame for the relationship that developed between them, however inappropriate it may be, and Stiles thought this tenderness was Derek's way of apologizing. To Stiles, every light touch of Derek's finger reminded him of the cold look in Derek's eyes and the dangerous edge his voice had possessed the night before, and Stiles shuddered. The man that had whipped him had been the King, through and through, and Stiles' brain couldn't connect him to the man who was with him now.

Stiles let Derek gather him up in his arms, wincing when the dried blood on his back cracked and pulled at tender skin. Derek set him down on a broad padded bench, and Stiles let himself be rolled to his stomach, his head pillowed on a pile of cushions. He let his eyes fall shut and wrapped his hands around a pillow, preparing himself for the pain he knew was coming. Behind him, Derek was quiet as he dipped a cloth in a basin, the dripping water the only noise in the room.

The cloth was cool when it touched Stiles' back, and he sucked in a sharp breath as Derek gently moved the cloth along the wounds. He moved as quickly and gently as he could, and Stiles had the uncomfortable thought that Derek knew what he was doing. Stiles squeezed his eyes shut tighter and focused on Derek's breathing and the regular sound of the cloth dipping into the basin of water. The pain wasn't sharp when Derek rubbed over the open skin, but it was deep, and Stiles could feel every inch of his skin humming. He wanted nothing more than to get up and run away from Derek's fingers, but he forced himself to stay still and let Derek take care of him.

Finally, Stiles heard Derek set the cloth down and he turned his head, chancing a sideways glance. Derek was opening a small pot, dipping his fingers into a substance that was both oily and creamy. When Derek's fingers rubbed right into one of the slashes, Stiles instinctively jumped, but he settled back down when he felt the salve start to sink in. The edges of the pain started to fuzz and blur, and Stiles sank gratefully into the bench. He hadn't realized the full extent of how much pain he'd been in until it started to go away, and Stiles silently thanked every god he could think of for the salve that Derek was slowly working into his skin.

Derek bent forward, kissing the skin between each of the slashes whenever he had to dip his fingers back into the jar. Stiles fisted his fingers in the pillow under his head, but against everything his brain was telling him, he relaxed under Derek's lips. Derek's lips and fingers were tender and familiar, and Stiles felt his muscles loosening under Derek's touch. Several long moments went by before Stiles realized that Derek was speaking, his words soft and muffled against Stiles' skin.

"I'm so sorry, Stiles. Didn't want to do it." Derek kissed further down Stiles' back, his lips brushing the very edges of the wounds. "You had been so good, I never thought I'd have to."

Stiles shivered when Derek's tongue passed just next to a slash that ran the full width of his back, not touching the open skin but teasing against the sensitive nerves alongside. He felt his face flush where it was pressed against the pillow, heated from equal parts desire and embarrassment. He wanted to be angry, wanted to pull himself out of this moment and away from Derek's words and his touch, but he felt rooted to the spot. Derek spoke again when he reached Stiles' hip, darting his tongue out to lap around the edges of a slash that curved around Stiles' hip in a way that was almost delicate.

"You will be good again for me, I will never have to do this again. Never have to mark your beautiful body again." Just once, Derek ran his tongue across the open skin, following immediately with his fingers coated in the soothing salve. He murmured so quietly that Stiles almost didn't hear it, but when his ears caught the words his heart skittered and he fought back another urge to crawl out from underneath Derek.

"My love."

Stiles' thoughts were fuzzy, confused, and coming more quickly than he could latch onto them. He hated that feeling. For so long everything in his life had been so clearly defined, a sharp line separating him from the men who owned him, but with Derek ... Stiles was finding that the line was blurry, and he needed it to be sharper. He'd begun to let Derek dismantle the careful wall he'd built up in his head to keep himself sane, and he needed to build it back up before he slipped up again. He had a feeling the consequences would be worse than a whipping, and he would rather not find out what they would be.

He couldn't focus with Derek's fingers and tongue continuing down his back, sensations swinging from pleasure to pain and back again before Stiles had time to grasp onto them. By the time Derek reached the base of Stiles spine and the final wound, Stiles felt his whole body shaking, and he dug his teeth into his bottom lip and tried to clear his head. Derek bent forward and placed a soft kiss to Stiles' shoulder before sliding his hands around Stiles' body and helping him to sit up, making sure his back didn't rest against anything.

"You do not have to go to the baths today, Stiles. You can stay here and rest, I'm sure your back hurts." Derek's voice sounded detached, but his hands moved soothingly up and down Stiles' arms and his eyes were full of concern.

Stiles shook his head, looking down at his lap. "I'm fine. I have worked through much worse than this." Left unspoken was that Stiles could think of nothing he wanted to do less than spend any more time alone in this room than he had to. The room was clean and tidy, and there was no sign of what had happened the night before, but Stiles swore he could see himself lying prone on the floor with Derek's tense body standing above him.

Derek gave him a long, steady look, but he nodded, pushing Stiles' hair back from his face. He leaned in and brushed his lips against Stiles' forehead, forcing his voice to sound light when he spoke. "Are you hungry? Deaton brought us our breakfast this morning, and I waited for you to wake." He stood, holding out a hand for Stiles to take. Stiles' head was screaming for him to refuse the meal, to refuse Derek's hand, but before he could open his mouth he was standing and Derek's warm hand was wrapped around his own.

Stiles ate quietly, keeping his eyes focused closely on his plate until he heard Derek clear his throat. He looked up through the swath of hair falling over his face, and set his bread down, listening.

"Stiles, you know that I did not enjoy doing what I did last night." Derek took a sip of wine, holding eye contact with Stiles over the edge of his goblet. "I also know you did not mean to say what you did. You're smarter than that." He set the glass down, reaching across the table to grip one of Stiles' hands in his and smiling weakly. "But you know all of that already. What you need to know is that I realize that I am as much to blame for what happened as you are."

Stiles' eyes widened, and his mouth dropped open, but no words found their way out. He felt that fuzzy, spinning sensation in his head again and felt the line between them blur just that much more. When his brain slowed down, and he could speak, his question was simple. "How?"

Derek sat back but didn't let go of Stiles' hand. It was clear he hadn't expected that question. "Stiles, I am to blame, because I am the one that made you feel so comfortable, that treated you so well." Stiles' mouth hardened into a firm line, but Derek was already continuing. "I don't regret it, not a second, until last night. I carry the blame for that as you do, perhaps more." He leaned forward again to brush Stiles' hair from his face, tucking it behind his hear. "I want this to change nothing. We know why this happened, and we can both keep it from happening again. But I want you to remain here, with me."

Stiles didn't know what to say, didn't think he could force himself to make a sound, so he merely nodded. He did want to stay with Derek, he wanted that more than he could remember wanting anything in a long time. What worried him was the large part of him that wanted to stay with Derek for more than safety. He closed his eyes and imagined his mental wall crumbling down around him. When he opened them again and saw Derek's face, relaxed and smooth now, his heart clenched. He would stay with Derek, but something would change. Stiles needed to rebuild his wall, and needed to remind himself of his position. Weeks ago when Deaton had pulled Stiles aside, warning him of the King's one weakness, Stiles had thought it a naive warning. Now, he wondered if it was he who was weak. He was sure of only one thing; by letting his guard down, he had come close to throwing away the only chance he had at a life.

Derek's lips against his forehead pulled Stiles from his reverie, and he smiled somewhat dimly as Derek reminded him that he did not have to go to the baths today, and then he would see him for supper. Stiles nodded, and when the door shut behind Derek, Stiles squared his shoulders. The dull ache that was beginning to return to his back reminded him why he was doing this, and brick by brick he began to rebuild the fallen wall inside him.

***

Days turned into weeks, and the wounds on Stiles' back healed and began to fade, even if his memory of that night didn't. Every day, Stiles worked towards building up that wall inside him, and pulling away just far enough from Derek that he could feel safe again. It was hard, harder than he would have ever expected it to be, but that only made him more determined to do it. The fact that it made his chest ache to pull out of an embrace, or made his eyes burn with unshed tears to climb out of Derek's bed and curl up on the floor to sleep only made it clear that Stiles had forgotten himself and his position.

In the first days following the whipping, Derek had been understanding which only served to fill Stiles with guilt. Derek indulged Stiles' sudden refusal to have sex facing one another, even if he had winced the first time Stiles turned away from a kiss. He had gotten a large, soft cushion for Stiles to sleep on when he refused to share Derek's bed, though he had insisted that Stiles remain in his room and not sleep in the sitting room. Many mornings, Stiles woke up early as usual, and found Derek leaning over the side of his bed closest to where Stiles slept, one arm flung over the edge and just barely brushing the corner of Stiles' cushion. It was all Stiles could do not to reach out and twine his fingers with Derek's the first time he'd noticed, but he'd balled his fists and told himself it would get easier.

It did not get easier, and Stiles was surprised when he realized what he missed the most about his previous relationship with Derek. His lute grew dusty in the corner of Derek's sitting room, and the absence of its gentle music hung in the air like smoke. Their breakfasts were mostly silent, with Derek attempting to engage Stiles in conversation but rarely receiving more than a nod in response. At the end of the day, when Derek made his trip to the baths, Stiles did his job and nothing more. He worked quickly, no longer lingering on his favorite parts of Derek's body, oiling Derek's skin as efficiently as he could. Nights were especially hard, as Stiles ached to crawl into bed and curl himself against Derek's chest and inhale his scent, but instead he curled up on the floor, his back facing Derek's bed.

***

Stiles had known that Derek would eventually lose patience with him and with his actions, but when it happened it still felt like an arrow through his chest. Derek came to the baths as he always did at the end of the day, and he spoke as Stiles began working the creamy soap into his skin.

"I am having company this evening, so take extra care." Derek's voice was casual and easy, but when Stiles allowed himself to flick his eyes up, he saw that Derek was looking pointedly at him.

"Yes, King." Stiles' words came out more clipped than he'd intended them to, and out of the corner of his eye he could see Melissa place her hands on her hips and cock her head at him. He shook his head slightly, but Melissa's raised eyebrow spoke volumes without her having to open her mouth. Stiles sighed, and dipped his hand back into the pot of soap before speaking again. "What kind of company? Will you be needing any of your special jewelry or clothing prepared?"

"No, I am having a guest to my private room." Derek's gaze was heavy on Stiles' back as he turned to wash Derek's feet, and if this was a message for Stiles, it was clear. "You will have to sleep in my sitting room this evening, my guest will be arriving after supper and staying the night."

Stiles simply nodded, but didn't turn back to face Derek. He could feel his eyes burning and he knew if he looked back, he would do or say something that would tear down every brick he'd built back up inside him. Derek had every right to bring someone else to his bed, and he always had. Stiles tried to tell himself that this was for the best, and Derek having another lover would only help Stiles separate himself, but as Stiles worked his hands up Derek's strong legs, he realized how weak this argument was. He knew Derek wasn't taking another lover because he wanted one, and he knew that Derek wanted him to say all of the words that were sitting right on the top of his tongue, but he couldn't. He couldn't. If he let those words out, he would be breaking every promise he had ever made to himself, and if he couldn't trust himself, he had no one.

Stiles dug his teeth into his lip until the metallic taste of blood filled his mouth, the pain throwing him back into his work. Derek was oddly still and silent as Stiles finished his bath, and Stiles felt the weight of the silence weighing on his shoulder as he skillfully worked the oil into Derek's muscles. Derek groaned a little, and Stiles realized he was leaning into Derek with most of his weight, pushing him hard against the table. Stiles pulled back, swiping his tongue over his still bleeding lip and finished quickly, smoothing the rest of the oil into Derek's skin with a touch so light it bordered on skittish. He quietly told Derek that he was done and helped him dress, following two steps behind him on the short walk to Derek's room, his eyes trained on the floor.

Supper was quick and nearly silent, and Stiles did no more than pick weakly at a crust of bread. The few glances he stole at Derek showed him that Derek's eyes stayed trained on Stiles for the entire meal, and every time their eyes met, there was a shift. In the spilt second before Derek could rearrange his face into careful blankness, Stiles saw a crease of concern between Derek's brows, his lips slightly turned down. Stiles stopped meeting Derek's eyes and instead focused his eyes on his fingers and picked at his fingernails. Derek’s fingers were running around the rim of his empty goblet. He stood wordlessly, and Stiles made a point of not looking him in the eye.

"Stiles." Derek's voice was firm, but not angry, and though every part of Stiles' brain was telling him to leave, to walk out through the door, he didn’t. He kept his face as blank as he could and locked eyes with Derek. Derek visibly started, his forehead creasing when Stiles turned, his mouth opening and then closing again. When he spoke, it was clear that he was not saying what he had originally intended, and his voice was flat. "I will see you tomorrow morning." Stiles simply nodded and stepped through the door, again casting his eyes to the floor, nowhere near ready to talk about what was going on in his head.

***

Stiles had managed to pull back so far, that he was truly caught off-guard by the moment that Derek reached the end of his rope. The sun was just barely up when Stiles opened his eyes, and he was surprised to see Derek already sitting at the table watching him sleep. Stiles sat up quickly, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He cleared his throat, about to speak, but Derek lifted a hand to silence him.

"Stiles, I believe we need to talk. Your actions this week ... I do not know what to make of them." Derek leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and Stiles suddenly felt very small.

"I have been doing my duties. Nothing more." That wasn't what Derek meant, and Stiles knew it, but he wasn't ready to have the conversation he knew was coming.

"That is exactly the problem, Stiles." Derek closed his eyes for a moment before continuing. "When I brought you here, to my rooms, it wasn't just to make my bed and set out my clothes. You knew that, and you know that now. Is this all because I had to punish you?"

Stiles pushed the sheet off and pushed himself to his feet. He walked towards Derek, grateful that Derek's seated position leveled their heights somewhat. "This is how it should be. I am your slave, and I was overstepping my boundaries before ... before that night."

Derek stood, crowding into Stiles' space before he had time to move back. His fingers wrapped tightly around Stiles' wrist, and Stiles looked up, wincing at the look of pain on Derek's face. "It does not have to be that way, Stiles, not with us. We have both made mistakes, but we have learned from them. I had hoped that by bringing someone else to bed, you would remember..." Derek's voice trailed off, his fingers loosening on Stiles' wrist as his gaze dropped to the floor.

Taking the opportunity, Stiles twisted himself out of Derek's grip. "I have remembered, King. I have."

Derek's face fell, and then hardened. Stiles watched Derek disappear and King take his place, a transition that he would always dread. Derek dropped his hands away from Stiles and stared down at him with a look in his eyes that would haunt Stiles. "Very well. If you wish to be nothing more than my slave, I can arrange for that." The King's fingers bit sharply into the flesh of Stiles' upper arm, dragging him close enough that he could work at the clasp that fastened the collar around Stiles' throat. When King removed it, he pushed Stiles away and dangled the collar from his fingers just in front of Stiles' face.

Stiles felt his eyes fill with the hot sting of tears, but he couldn't have said whether it was from the look of pure anger on King's face or the thought of what awaited him in the slave quarters. He blinked the tears away, suddenly aware of the missing weight around his throat. Before he could lift a hand to feel the empty expanse of skin, Stiles dropped to his knees, pressing his forehead nearly to the floor in front of the King's feet. "As you wish."

There was a beat of total silence, and then Stiles felt King's finger's digging into his arm again, this time hauling him to his feet. He didn't say a single word as he dragged Stiles through the palace, his leather sandals slapping loudly against the stone floors until he reached the slave quarters. He pushed open the door with a force Stiles didn't know he had, and flung Stiles forward onto his knees. Stiles kept his head down, tears now spilling freely from his eyes onto the floor. Over his head he could hear King and Deaton talking quickly but quietly, and then Stiles was being lifted to his feet by a gentler hand.

The smile he saw on Deaton’s face now was not one he recognized, but it was one he welcomed. It was soft, and a little sad, and it took all of Stiles' willpower not to collapse against Deaton’s broad chest. "What have you done?" Deaton’s voice was quiet, but the tone was enough to make Stiles drop his head in shame. Deaton sighed deeply and tugged on Stiles' arm until he followed. "Come. You will be working with the others on the monument. You've missed breakfast, but I think there's some bread left. You need to eat before you go out there." Stiles just nodded, suddenly feeling exhausted and defeated. The bread Deaton gave him was old and dry, and there was barely enough water left to wet his mouth.

As the midday sun beat down on his back and his hands begun to bleed from hauling rough stones, Stiles was too focused on not collapsing or being injured that he didn't have time to think, but that night as he curled up on the bare floor, his mind began to race. All around him there were whispers, he was the one who the King had picked, the one who the King had thrown away. Most of the stories he heard weren't true, but the ones that were hurt the most. Stiles didn't sleep again that night, because Derek's face flashed behind his eyes every time he tried to close them. He hugged his knees to his chest, missing even the thinnest sheet from Derek's bed and stared into the darkness until the guards kicked at his ribs to rouse him in the morning.

***

Nearly two weeks went by before Derek gave in and went to watch Stiles. The day was hot and dry, and even under the tent that had been set up for him, Derek was sweating and uncomfortable. The sand blew around his ankles, the grains biting into his skin even as he reached down to brush them away. He was aware of Deaton’s presence behind him, but he didn't want to talk. Derek's eyes were trained on the slaves working in front of him, bodies sunburnt and exhausted as they heaved and dragged stones across the sand. He tried to remain detached, tried to sit still and tall like his title demanded, but he couldn't help wincing when one of the slaves collapsed under the weight of the stones, crumbling to the sand. A guard stalked over to him, nudging him with his foot, and when the slave didn't stand the guard produced a whip, bringing it down sharply on the slave's shoulders until he struggled to his feet.

Even from this distance, Derek could see the slave's chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath, could see the deep exhaustion in his limbs as he forced them to move. Briefly, Derek wondered if he really needed this monument, wondered how he would be remembered if he stood up right now and stopped the building, setting the slaves free. He allowed himself a few moments to revel in that thought before shaking his head and coming back to reality. He had been on the edge of losing his throne more than once since he rose to power, and on the day he decided he wanted to be thrown from his palace into the streets, that is the day he would announce his secret thoughts.

It wasn’t that the throne was everything to him; reality was that in Derek’s stead only a much crueler and oppressive ruler would come. Derek wondered if, despite being frequently mocked as too soft and weak a king by others, whipping Stiles had been a horrendous mistake; if he should be even softer to all of his slaves; if he should increase their rations and bring gentler guards.

Deaton’s hand was heavy and dry on Derek's shoulder, and Derek followed where he was pointing. He wouldn't have needed Deaton’s direction to find Stiles, his hair, though dirty, still shining in the sun. Derek stood, walking to the very edge of the tent, only stopping because Deaton was behind him again, his hand wrapping around Derek's upper arm. Derek watched Stiles work in silence for several minutes, watched his small frame nearly buckle under the weight of the stones he was carrying, watching his arms shake as he lifted heavy tools over his head. His skin was red and filthy, and when he turned to face away from Derek, he could see red slashes across Stiles' back and even down the backs of his legs. He imagined he could see Stiles' ribs through his skin, see his cheeks hollowed out. Derek's hands curled into fists, anger bubbling up in his chest before he could tamp it down.

"You cannot go to him." Deaton’s voice was firm, but it was gentle, and Derek felt the fire in his chest begin to subside.

"No. I have to. I have to bring him to me." Derek felt sick. Deaton’s hand held him firmly. He did know what he had asked for from Deaton, but that didn't make it easy. Every morning he missed walking into his sitting room to find Stiles softly strumming his lute. Every night he missed wrapping his arms around Stiles' slight frame, Stiles' face pressing eagerly into Derek's chest. He wanted nothing more than to go running across the sand right now, to wrap his arms around Stiles and tell him everything he wasn't allowed to tell him. But he knew Deaton was right, as much as he didn't want to admit it.

Deaton’s hand softened on Derek's arm, no longer restraining him but remaining a comforting weight as he spoke. "You told me that you had both crossed lines, yes?" He waited for Derek's tentative nod before continuing. "And you were both aware that those lines had been crossed, yes?" Another nod, this time accompanied by a questioning look. "You and I both know that you desire to have Stiles with you again. And I believe I can safely say that is what he wants as well."

"How do you know? He certainly didn't act..." Derek was silenced but a swift raise of Deaton’s hand. Deaton was the one man who could silence Derek that way, and he did it rarely enough that Derek was mostly shocked into silence when it happened.

"He is scared. He is angry. That is perhaps partially my fault as well, but he cannot be blamed for his fear and anger. He has known nothing else for so long." Deaton lifted his hands and placed them on Derek's shoulders, as close as they ever got to an embrace. "But he must come to you, King. I know it is hard for you to watch him like this, but he is strong, in body and in mind. If he cares for you, and I believe he does, he will come around."

Derek turned his head briefly back to watch Stiles, wincing as he fell to the ground, scrambling to his feet before any of the guards could notice his misstep. "I think he does care for me, but that he is so… disappointed by me. I want him to forgive me. I do not know how long I can wait for him. I ... care deeply for him." When Derek looked back, there was a softness that he had never seen before around the edges of Deaton’s gaze. "I am not very good at hiding my feelings, am I?"

Deaton chuckled, a wry smile curving his lips. "Not with me, no." His face grew serious then, and his fingers tightened on Derek's shoulders. "King, you know that I very much do not like to admit when I am wrong." Derek nodded, lifting and eyebrow to signal that Deaton should continue. "I know that I warned you about becoming too invested in Stiles, against developing too many... feelings. I warned him of the same thing. However, it seems that perhaps you may be worse off without one another."

"Not that I do not enjoy seeing you admit that you may be wrong, but what about the consequences? I very nearly lost my throne after the incident at the party, and you and I both know that our kingdom is being watched very closely. You yourself scolded me for showing such weakness in the presence of so many important guests." Derek stepped back out of Deaton’s grip, crossing his arms across his chest. "What has caused your sudden change of heart?"

"You were never a better ruler than when you were happy, and you were never happier than when you had Stiles. These last few weeks … forgive me, King, but they have not been your finest. " Derek had to nod, begrudgingly agreeing that his head hadn't been the most focused. "And now, you even want forgiveness for punishing an insolent slave. That is because he is not your slave, and neither are you his king. You are both more to each other, much more. As for the consequences, you have both seen them. I trust that you are both smart enough to learn from your mistakes, and you will not repeat them. For myself, I am being forced to admit that perhaps, there is value in love."

Derek stared at Deaton in silence for a few moments, speechless at the words he had just heard. He had long ago lost count of the number of times that Deaton or another person close to him had warned him of the perils of love, had told him that love was not what built dynasties. Even Derek couldn't deny that Stiles wouldn't help him to carry on his name, but he did not have the desire for longevity and power that his father had. His father had many children by many women, and Derek would be more than happy to pass the throne onto them when the time came.

When Derek spoke again, his voice was soft, and almost tentative. "Do you think he will come to me? I think I hurt him very deeply, broke his trust. If I were in his position, I can't say if I would come back."

"He will, King. I am sure he will, but he needs time. I know he misses you, for when he manages to sleep, your name often falls from his lips." Deaton reached forward and took Derek's hand, squeezing it gently. "I will talk to him."

Derek turned and took one last lingering look, squinting as if it gave him a better view. He couldn't see Stiles' face, only the blur of his hair falling into his eyes, but perhaps that was better. He was sure he didn't want to see the look that was certainly creasing Stiles' face. Derek sighed, turning back and allowing Deaton to guide him away from the monument site. His legs ached to turn and run to Stiles, but he forced himself to keep moving forward. Derek walked away without looking back, but that night when he closed his eyes to sleep, all he could see was Stiles, sunburnt, and bleeding. Stiles would come to him when he was ready; he had to.

***

Days, maybe even weeks; Stiles had long ago stopped counting how long it had been since Derek had tossed him away, how long he'd been slaving away in the blistering desert heat. His every muscle ached as he lay down on the floor to sleep, curling onto his side so his back wasn't against the floor. He had fresh as well as healing slashes from his shoulders to his waist, and he pulled his knees to his chest even though the stretch sent sharp pains firing across his back. Stiles was tired to his bones, and he felt his eyes drifting shut even as he tried to force them open against the dreams he knew were coming. Every night when he closed his eyes he saw Derek's face, not the soft, loving face he missed but the hard face with the cold eyes that belonged to the man who had thrown him on his knees. Still, Stiles' traitorous heart ached every time he opened his eyes and Derek's face faded, leaving him staring into the darkness of the room. Derek was his only salvation, but also his biggest puzzle. Stiles wondered whether Derek wanted him back; whether he could save him; mostly, Stiles wondered if he wanted to be saved at all.

He woke long before the sun that morning as he did most mornings, but he lay still until the guard came in to wake them. He tensed his muscles when he heard the door open, waiting for the kick to the back that he had come to expect, but it never came. Instead, he felt a hand wrap around his upper arm and yank him to his feet, turning him easily. Stiles looked up, and found himself looking into the familiar face of Deaton, and it took much effort for him to not fall to his knees and beg at Deaton’s feet. He yanked out of Deaton’s grip and snarled, "What do you want?"

"Stiles, I just want to talk to you." Deaton leaned forward so he could speak softly but firmly, holding Stiles' gaze. "I need but a few minutes. It is about the King."

Stiles felt himself flinch at Deaton’s words and his heart rate sped up, part of his brain telling him to turn and walk away. "Fine. A few minutes."

The gaze of the other slaves was heavy on Stiles' back as Deaton led him out of the room and into an alcove with two stools and a small table. There was no door, but Deaton pulled a curtain shut behind them, giving them some privacy. Stiles' mouth watered when he saw the food spread out on the table, the modest meal of cheese, figs and bread seeming like a feast after weeks of little more than stale crusts and water. His hand twitched towards the table, but he pulled it back, looking up at Deaton. When Deaton nodded and sat down, Stiles wasted no time. At another time he might have been self-conscious about the way he was eating, but he couldn't spare the energy to care today.

When Stiles finally sat back, stomach full nearly to the point of pain, Deaton cleared his throat and leaned forward to rest his elbows on the table. "Can we talk now?"

Stiles nodded, the momentary pleasure he felt after his breakfast fading. "Good. I suppose I do not have to tell you that I am here on behalf of the King. Of Derek."

Stiles nodded again, shutting his eyes at the sound of Derek's name. "Please, get on with it." His mind was spinning with all the things that Deaton could be here to tell him, and he needed to know.

"Stiles." Deaton waited until Stiles opened his eyes and looked at him before continuing. "He misses you. It was the hardest thing he ever had to do to turn you out, and he has been miserable since that day." Stiles huffed, but Deaton continued. "You may find that hard to believe, but it is the truth. He has watched you from a distance, and told me how much he wanted to run to you, bring you back to him."

"Then why didn't he?" Stiles' voice was suddenly sharp, and he leaned across the table to get closer to Deaton. "It seemed easy for him to toss me aside when I was no longer what he wanted, and he is the King. He could have me back at any time, you and I both know that." It felt good to yell, even if his anger was being directed at the wrong person. "All these weeks I have been working in the hot sun, my skin is blistered, I have been whipped and starved and beaten, and you tell me that he has been miserable?"

"He has been. I am not saying that what he has been through is the same as what you have, but trust in what I say." Deaton reached across the table and gripped Stiles' wrist, tightening his fingers when Stiles tried to pull away. "As for why he did not come to you... Stiles, he thinks you won’t ever forgive him. He doesn't want you to be with him out of duty or necessity. Perhaps that is the way it began, but even I could see that it became much more than that. If you can tell me honestly that you do not care for him, even love him, I will leave you right now."

Stiles drank the words like fresh water. Derek was sorry… he wanted Stiles; him, a slave. He hesitated briefly, his heart hammering against his ribs as he shook his head. "I cannot... love him, it is impossible."

"But you did not say that you don't love him." Deaton’s voice was gentle, but it unnerved Stiles rather than settling him.

"You were the one to warn me against love, and now you come to me and say this? What am I to make of it?" Stiles pulled his wrist out of Deaton’s grasp, wrapping his arms tightly around his chest.

"I am admitting that I was, perhaps, incorrect. What happened at the party was unfortunate, and there were consequences that you likely do not know about. King has not had it easy since then, but you are both smart enough to learn from those consequences, are you not?" Deaton lifted an eyebrow, a slightly challenging edge to his voice.

Stiles ignored the challenge, biting into his lower lip. "What consequences? Tell me what happened." Deaton sighed deeply, but he answered. Stiles nodded along as he spoke, much of what Deaton was telling him going over his head. He had no understanding of politics, but he did understand that he had nearly cost Derek his kingdom. He also understood that despite that, Derek wanted him back.

"Everything is alright now, Stiles. People are still watching him closely, but he has proven himself a strong and capable leader." Deaton closed his eyes for a moment, taking in a deep breath. Stiles thought it looked like he was steeling himself to say something difficult, and he was surprised by what followed. "He was a better leader when he had you with him. These last few weeks... his mind has not been focused. Consider it, Stiles. I know you miss him."

Deaton’s hand was warm where it rested on Stiles' forearm, and Stiles looked up at him, still chewing his lip. "I need to think. Can I have time?"

"Of course. Come to me when you have thought, but do not wait too long." Deaton pointedly glanced down at Stiles' raw hands, at the whip slashes curving around his hips and over his shoulders. He stood, giving Stiles' shoulder a final squeeze before pushing the curtain aside and leaving Stiles alone in the alcove with his thoughts. He was only alone for moments before one of the other guards crowded into the alcove and yanked him to his feet, muttering under his breath about how Stiles needed to learn his place. As Stiles was dragged back out into the harsh sun, the sand burning his feet, he realized that Deaton was right. He had to make his decision soon, or he might not be alive to make it.

The next few days went by slowly, somehow worse than the ones that had come before. Stiles' body ached with exhaustion and more, and his heart weighed heavy with everything that Deaton had told him. He slept less in those days than he had in weeks, the quiet of dark the only time when he was truly free to let himself focus on the decision he had to make. The decision should have been easy; he wanted to go back to Derek, and Derek wanted Stiles to come back. But Stiles couldn't forget all that stood between them, couldn't let himself be the reason that Derek lost his throne. He rolled over, gritting his teeth as his hip bones dug into the stone floor and sucking in a deep breath. Light was just beginning to filter through the windows, and the guards burst into the room. Stiles felt the first swift kick to his ribs, and he made his decision.

It was another several days before Stiles could get to Deaton, but he spent those days full of strange lightness. It was like a knot he hadn't even known was balled up in his chest had loosened and he could breathe again. Finally, it was Deaton who came to lead them out to the monument, and Stiles walked just slow enough that he ended up at the back of the line. He took a deep breath and crooked his elbow out, nudging Deaton just enough to get his attention. Deaton looked down at him as they walked, lifting an eyebrow in an obvious question. Stiles simply nodded, short and sharp, locking his eyes with Deaton’s. Deaton nodded back, one corner of his mouth lifting up nearly imperceptibly, and Stiles returned the slight smile. He didn't know what came next, but he trusted Deaton more than he could remember trusting anyone. Stiles dropped his head to stare at his feet, watching as they marched steadily over the hot sand for what he hoped was the last time.

The day was long and hot, and Stiles worked quietly, just trying to stay out of the way. The sun was already beginning to dip in the sky when the guards hollered and cracked their whips in the air. The slaves shuffled to form a line, moving as fast as their weary bones would carry them, and Stiles once again hung back. They filtered slowly into the slave quarters, each receiving a meager meal of bread and water. Stiles reached forward to receive his rations, but was stopped.

"Not tonight. Sit over there and wait, someone is coming for you." The guard's voice was clearly full of disdain, but Stiles didn't care. His heart was pounding and he felt light-headed, the gazes of the other slaves hot on his chest as he as he took a seat in the corner of the large room, his fingers drumming restlessly on his thigh as he waited. He didn't know how long he waited, but it was long enough that his brain was starting to race. What was going to happen next? He assumed that Deaton was coming to bring him to Derek, but what if he'd waited too long and Derek didn't want him? Stiles chewed on his lip until the taste of blood filled his mouth, picking at his nails in a vain attempt to stay still.

Stiles leapt to his feet when he saw Deaton stride into the room, and the look on his face must have said everything. Deaton walked quickly to him, resting a calming hand on his shoulder, the sound of his voice already slowing Stiles' pulse. "Breathe, Stiles. Would you like to eat now, or later?"

"Later." Stiles' voice was a little raspy as he spoke, the thought of sharing a meal with Derek again momentarily taking his breath from him. Deaton just nodded, and Stiles figured that Deaton had known what he would say before he even entered the room. Stiles forced himself to hold his head high as he walked from the room, ignoring the whispers of _weak_ and _he'll be back_ coming from behind him. He wasn't weak, and he would never be back here.

Stiles felt a strange feeling flow through his body as Deaton stopped in front of the door to the baths. It was a moment of coming full-circle, being back in the place where he was taken that first time that Derek asked for him. He looked up at Deaton once more, his eyes twinkling with the soft smile that spread across his face. Stiles' voice was little more than a whisper, but every emotion he was feeling was in those words. "Thank you."

Deaton nodded, placing his hands on both of Stiles' shoulders and squeezing. "You are more than welcome. Now go. You have both been waiting long enough." He pushed open the door to the baths and held out a hand, gesturing for Stiles to enter the room. With one last smile, Stiles turned and stepped into the warm, fragrant room.

Most of the usual lamps were unlit, but the room was glowing with soft light from candles perched on the edges of the large stone tub. Stiles expected to be yanked forward and scrubbed by Melissa, and it took his brain several seconds to recognize that it was Derek standing at the end of the tub. Derek was dressed simply with just a cloth around his waist, totally free of jewellery. Even his face was clean of makeup, and the sight of it made a lump form in Stiles' throat. His feet felt frozen to the floor even as his brain was screaming at him to move.

Luckily, he didn't have to make the decision. Derek moved forward slowly, a soft smile on his face as he reached out for Stiles. When his fingers wrapped around Stiles', the last of the tension in Stiles' chest crumbled and he fell forward, flinging his arms around Derek's neck. He buried his face in Derek's skin and just breathed, the familiar spicy-sweet scent filling his nostrils. Derek's arms wrapped around Stiles' back lightly, careful of the open wounds and tender skin, but Stiles just held on tighter, pretty sure that it was impossible for him to feel pain right now.

They stood that way for a long time, just breathing together until Derek pushed Stiles back just far enough to look in his eyes and smile, an easy grin with just a hint of laughter in his eyes. "The water is going to get cold if you don't get in soon."

Stiles blinked, suddenly realizing what was going to happen. He let Derek lead him towards the tub, his legs shaking more than a little as he climbed the steps. He nearly groaned as he slid into the water, the heat sinking into his sore muscles, already beginning to rinse away weeks of sand and sweat. Stiles relaxed against the sloped back of the tub, feeling at once exhausted and exhilarated. His eyelids felt heavy, but he forced them to stay open, watching as Derek reached into a basket on the floor and retrieved a familiar pot of creamy soap and a soft cloth.

They were both silent as Derek served Stiles, spreading the creamy soap over each of Stiles' limbs, scrubbing him clean with the cloth. He moved slowly, his hands lingering on Stiles' chest, his fingers splaying between Stiles' jutting ribs, a look of worry flashing through his eyes. Derek gestured for Stiles to slide forward and gently cleaned his back, letting the soapy water run over the open wounds and keeping the cloth to the areas of skin that were not damaged. The soap stung a little, but Stiles gritted his teeth silently, and Derek's fingers smoothed gently over his skin, soothing the sting. Stiles relaxed even more when Derek guided his head under the water, sure fingers working soap into his hair and rinsing again and again. Stiles wanted to be embarrassed for how filthy he was, but Derek's fingers felt too good for him to care for more than a few moments.

By the time Derek was done, Stiles' limbs felt so heavy he thought he'd never make it out of the tub. Derek helped him over the side and dried him swiftly, again giving extra care to the skin on Stiles' back. He smiled softly and wrapped an arm around Stiles' waist, whispering as he led him to the large table in the centre of the room. "Don't fall asleep before I finish, Stiles." Stiles shivered against Derek's body, but not from the cold. He thought vaguely that he hadn't said a word since he'd walked into the room, but then Derek's big hands were on his hips, helping him climb onto the large table, and his words were gone again. Derek started at Stiles' feet, working fragrant oil into each of his toes, smoothing it into his aching arches before moving up his legs. Stiles had known that his legs were sore, but Derek's fingers dug in just hard enough to let him feel the deep ache release. He groaned as Derek worked the muscles of his thighs, letting his legs fall apart when Derek's fingers gently teased at the cleft of his ass.

Derek didn't go any further than that, sliding the flats of his hands over Stiles' hips and ass, his finger tips brushing over the very edges of the whip slashes. Stiles briefly tensed when Derek moved up his back, a familiar cooling sensation spreading through his skin. Derek was using the same salve he had used before, and Stiles' head filled with memories, not only of Derek whipping him, but of what came after that which had been so much worse. Those memories started to dissolve when Derek bent forward to rain kisses down on Stiles' back, finding each spot of unblemished skin. He whispered against Stiles' skin, muffled but just loud enough for Stiles to hear, things like never again and so sorry and beautiful. Stiles' face was hot where it rested against his arm, and by the time Derek reached his shoulders and was whispering right into Stiles' ear, Stiles' whole body felt like it was on fire.

Stiles rolled onto his side and reached up a hand, sliding it up Derek's back until he could tangle it in Derek's hair. He pulled Derek down and kissed him, slow and hot and deep, Derek's taste familiar and intoxicating. When he pulled back, he smiled softly at Derek, looking at him with heavy-lidded eyes. "I've missed you."

"You will never have to miss me again." Derek took Stiles' face in his face, placing gentle kisses to his eyes, his nose, and finally his lips. "Are you ready for supper?"

Stiles wanted to say that he was ready for more than supper, but his growling stomach answered for him. He laughed softly, tipping his head forward to let his damp hair fall in front of his face. "Yes, I am ready." Derek's hand felt warm and big around Stiles', and he let himself be pulled to his feet. They stood just looking at each other for several long moments before Derek stepped away to grab Stiles' clothes from the floor. The cloth of his kilt was tattered and filthy, and as Derek bent to wrap it around Stiles' waist he promised to give him trunks full of brand new robes.

"I do not need a trunk full." Stiles' fingers slid through Derek's hair when he stood again, and he tipped his face up to let Derek kiss him softly.

"Maybe not, but I want to give them to you. That and so much more." Derek's hands rested heavy on Stiles' hips and his body felt huge and safe where it pressed Stiles against the table. He bent to rub his lips down Stiles' throat and over his shoulder, chuckling as he did. "I think we need to leave here now, or we never will."

Stiles grinned, slipping his fingers just under the edge of Derek's kilt, rubbing at the soft skin there. "Would that be so bad?"

Derek's eyes sparkled and he leaned in to nip at Stiles' lower lip. "Perhaps not, but I would prefer my bed to this table." His hand slid up Stiles' side, fingers splaying over his ribs, resting in the clear gaps between them. "And you need to eat."

Stiles dropped his head again, feeling oddly embarrassed about the state of his body. Derek was gentle when he tipped Stiles' chin up to him, kissing him softly on the lips. He tangled his fingers with Stiles', tugging him away from the table. Stiles followed more than willingly, tucking himself underneath Derek's arm as they stepped into the hall. The faces they passed were familiar, but this time Stiles passed them with his head held high. He would never walk through these halls with his head down again.

When Derek opened the door to his rooms, Stiles felt the lump return to his throat. It looked exactly like it had the last time he had been here, and his lute and scribe palette were sitting in the corner, as if they were waiting for it. Stiles ran his fingers along the furniture as he made his way towards the table, glad to feel the smooth wood and soft fabrics under his skin again. Derek pulled out a chair for him, and Stiles sat, taking in the huge meal in front of him. He spared one glance at Derek who simply smiled and nodded, and then he began filling his plate. He ate slowly, savoring every bite of meat and cheese and sweet wine, things he thought he'd never taste again. Even when he was full, he wanted to keep eating, but he reminded himself that there would be another meal like this tomorrow, and the day after that, and every day.

Derek didn't eat, instead he sat and watched Stiles quietly, occasionally reaching across the table to brush Stiles' arm. Stiles imagined he was proving to himself that Stiles was there, sitting right across the table from him, and Stiles appreciated the gesture. Every time Derek's fingers brushed over Stiles' skin, it felt like heat and sparks followed them, and Stiles reached out with his own hand to grip Derek's. He ate the rest of his meal with one hand, sneaking glances up at Derek who had a soft smile on his face, with just a touch of sadness in his eyes.

By the time Stiles finished eating, his entire body felt heavy and his eyelids were drooping. Derek squeezed his hand and spoke softly, his fingers stroking over Stiles' knuckles. "Shall we go to bed? You look exhausted."

Stiles blinked slowly, standing when Derek moved in front of him and guided him up. "I am exhausted." Stiles spoke honestly, but even if he had tried to lie, the weary way his body moved would've given him away. Derek nearly carried Stiles to the bedroom, guiding him down onto the bed. Stiles groaned with pleasure as he sank into the soft, cool linens of Derek's bed, his head falling back into the pillows. He smiled wearily at Derek, reaching a hand up to pull Derek down on top of him. They kissed lazily for several minutes, their hands roaming over hot skin, their clothes somehow finding their way to the floor. Derek pulled back from Stiles’ mouth to kiss a hot path down Stiles' throat, smiling against his skin when Stiles' mouth opened wide in a yawn.

"I'm sorry, I want ... I'm just so tired." Stiles' voice was thick and he rubbed one hand over his face as if he was trying to will himself into wakefulness.

Derek crawled up the bed and slotted his body alongside Stiles', tossing an arm over Stiles' waist and resting his chin on Stiles' chest. "I know you are. I want it too, but there is always tomorrow. We have nothing but time now, Stiles." He lifted his head to kiss Stiles' lips, and then shifted their bodies until Stiles was on his side, Derek's body pressed all along his back.

Stiles turned his head just enough to see Derek's face, even though he could feel his eyes shutting even as he spoke in little more than a whisper. "Time." He fell asleep in Derek's arms, drifting under easily, his sleep deep and blissfully dreamless.

When Stiles woke, he blinked slowly, shifting until he felt Derek's arms tighten around him. He smiled to himself and squirmed, rolling until he was face to face with Derek. Derek was already awake, his eyes still sleep-blurry and his hair standing out from his head. Stiles reached a hand up to rake through Derek's hair, flattening it and feeling the soft strands slide between his fingers. He was quiet for a few long moments, as if he had to convince himself that he was really here, in Derek's bed again.

"Good morning. Did you sleep well?" Derek leaned in to press a gentle kiss to Stiles' lips, his hand sliding hotly down Stiles' side to rest on the curve of his hip.

Stiles nodded, pressing his face to Derek's shoulder, breathing him in. "I slept perfectly. And do you know what today is?" A confused look passed over Derek's face, and Stiles grinned as he answered. "It is tomorrow."

Derek was silent for a moment before his loud laugh filled the room. He pulled Stiles closer, sliding his hand carefully over Stiles' sore back, kissing him deeply and slowly before pulling back. He rested his forehead against Stiles', his breath hot against Stiles' lips as he spoke. "I am very glad that it's tomorrow." His lips claimed Stiles' again before Stiles could respond, but Stiles found he didn't care.

The sheets were soft against Stiles' skin, and Derek was gentle as he pushed Stiles down onto his back. Stiles tensed briefly, but the wounds on his back were only a distant ache, especially compared to the slow fire that Derek's hands were stoking inside him. Stiles arched his back as Derek's hands slid down his chest, fingertips brushing lightly over his nipples and stopping just at the jut of his hip bones. He did it again and again until Stiles was panting, one hand fisting in the sheets, and the other reaching up to slip around Derek's neck.

Derek fell willingly onto Stiles, his body covering every inch of Stiles' as they kissed. Stiles let himself be bold, his hands skimming down Derek's broad back to cup his ass, rolling his hips up until their cocks slid together. He felt a surge of pride when Derek shuddered, pulling his mouth away from Stiles' to dig his teeth into the soft flesh at the base of Stiles' throat. They moved together easily, each kiss and touch pushing away the weeks between them, making the bad memories blur around the edges until they disappeared completely.

They were both breathless and flushed when Derek finally pulled back, his hand still moving in slow circles on Stiles' heaving chest. Stiles licked his swollen lips and lifted his thigh, rubbing it teasingly over Derek's cock just to hear the shaky breath fall from Derek's lips. "Please, I want...please." Stiles' eyes fluttered shut as he spoke, and he wondered if he'd ever get any better at asking for what he wanted. He opened his eyes again when he felt Derek's fingers stroke gently down his cheek, Derek smiling above him, his eyes both sparkling and dark at the same time.

"Then you can have." Derek's voice was so clear and sure, that Stiles was certain it was that simple. He pulled himself back on the bed so he could rest higher on the pillows, watching as Derek reached into a small basket at the side of the bed, pulling out a small pot of oil. Stiles' mouth went a little dry when Derek dipped his fingers into the pot, the sight of them slick and dripping making his cock twitch. He spread his thighs eagerly, beckoning Derek forward so that he could kiss him as Derek's slick fingers pushed into him. Stiles sucked on Derek's tongue, moaning softly at the feeling of Derek's fingers stretching him, sliding in with just enough burn to drive him crazy.

Derek twisted his fingers inside of Stiles, biting down on Stiles' full lower lip as he crooked his fingers. Stiles arched up, pushing his heels into the bed and trying to get Derek's fingers to go deeper. Derek responded by stroking a hand gently over Stiles' stomach, the muscles beneath the skin fluttering eagerly as Derek kept up a slow, easy rhythm with his fingers. He bent forward to press his lips against Stiles' ear, speaking low and hot. "You feel so good, Stiles. I have missed this, miss you so much. We will never be apart again, will we, my love?"

Stiles' heart skittered like it had the first time Derek had used those words, but this time it wasn't in panic. His head felt light and fuzzy, and he swore that if it wasn't for Derek's hands on his body he would've floated off the bed. Stiles tangled a hand in Derek's hair and pulled him down for a messy kiss, tongues and teeth and breathy moans. He pulled back, his breath catching in his throat when Derek slid his fingers out just as he spoke. "Never."

"You are so beautiful, my love." Derek stroked his hand down the side of Stiles' face as he pushed his cock forward, Stiles' body giving easily around him. Stiles wanted to answer, wanted to tell Derek that he was more beautiful, more than Stiles could ever be, but Stiles' words disappeared when Derek was as deep in him as he could be, their bodies pressed tightly together from shoulders to knees. He pressed his hand to Derek's cheek, fingertips rubbing lightly over Derek's cheekbone, tracing the freckles scattered there back to his hairline. He wrapped his legs around Derek's waist and fisted a hand in the long shock of black hair that was falling loose over Derek's face. Stiles' hand tightened just enough that Derek tipped his head back, his eyes open and locked on Stiles'. Stiles held Derek's eyes as long as he could, telling him everything his lips refused to say before his own eyes fluttered shut and his head fell back into the pillow.

It was slow and fast all at once, every inch of Stiles' skin feeling like it was on fire. Derek's lips kissed and nipped at every inch of skin they could reach, and his fingers scraped and soothed over the parts his lips couldn't. Stiles' cock was trapped between their bodies, hard and leaking onto their stomachs, the friction of Derek's body above his sending his head spinning. Inside him, Derek's cock was hot and slick, stretching him perfectly, making Stiles groan and sigh, his own hands running up and down Derek's back, leaving behind thin red lines where his nails dug in too hard.

He felt the fire in his gut swirl and settle, his limbs buzzing and heavy. Derek's thrusts were perfect, hard and sweet and brushing against that spot inside Stiles that made sparks flash behind his eyes. Stiles felt himself tumbling over the edge, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of Derek's ass as he came. "Derek! Oh, Derek!" He cried out loudly, realizing somewhere in the back of his brain that this was the first time he had used Derek's name since they had been reunited. He liked the way it sounded, liked the way it felt in his mouth, and even more, he liked what it meant that he was allowed to say it.

When Stiles' muscles clenched down around him, Derek's thrusts became shorter and shallower, less measured, and Stiles pulled Derek down to kiss him as he came. Derek moaned his release into Stiles' mouth, his teeth scraping over Stiles' already swollen bottom lip, the taste of blood sharp in both of their mouths. Stiles could feel the spreading heat deep inside him, and he nearly whimpered when Derek pulled out leaving him empty. He gasped when Derek pressed two fingers back into him, gently pushing into his sore hole, twisting just enough as he pulled them out to make Stiles' over-sensitive body shudder.

Derek lay back against the pillows and pulled Stiles with him, carding his fingers through Stiles' sweaty hair as they both caught their breaths. The quiet was welcome, and Stiles was sure that he would never be happier than he was right now, sated and wrapped in Derek's strong arms. After several minutes of quiet, Stiles tipped his head up to look at Derek, matching smiles on both of their faces. When he'd looked up, Stiles hadn't been sure what he was going to say, but looking into Derek's face now, it was obvious. "I love you, Derek."

Derek's face went radiant with joy, and he pulled Stiles into his lap, running his hands over Stiles' back. "I love you too, Stiles. So much. You have no idea what it means to hear you... I know how ..." Stiles had never seen Derek at a loss for words like this, and he bent to kiss Derek's forehead.

"Months ago, I did not believe that I could ever have love. Weeks ago, I nearly threw away my life because I was afraid of love." Stiles' hands cupped Derek's face gently, and he took a deep breath before continuing. These words were not easy to say, but once he started he couldn't stop them from spilling out. He smiled a small half-smile, tossing his hair back from his face. "I have to say, it feels much better to just accept it. Love isn't something to be afraid of."

"You weren't the only one who was afraid. I'm merely glad we figured it out before it was too late." The silence that followed Derek's words was heavy, with both of them thinking about what could have happened. It was Derek that broke the silence, his eyes brightening as he spoke. "Oh! I have something for you, Stiles."

"For me?" Stiles slid off of Derek's lap, moving to sit cross-legged on the bed, watching as Derek bent over the side of the bed, reaching underneath. He let himself stare as the muscles in Derek's back and thighs flexed, and was only barely keeping himself from reaching out to touch Derek's ass when Derek sat back up, a small box in his hands. He held it out to Stiles, nodding for him to open it. Stiles' fingers fumbled with the small latch as he lifted the lid, and he gasped when he saw what was in it.

"I thought that you should have this back." Derek set the box down so that he could lift the thin golden collar from the box. He fastened it deftly around Stiles' throat, and Stiles sighed at the feeling of collar resting on his skin. It was cool, and though it didn't weigh much, the meaning hung around Stiles' neck. To others, the collar meant that Stiles was owned, that he was property, but that wasn't what it meant to Stiles, or to Derek. To Stiles, the collar meant that he was loved and wanted, and deserving of protection, and he lifted his hand to feel the contrast between the metal and his skin.

Derek's hand joined Stiles', tangling their fingers together and slipping them just underneath the collar. They sat like that for some time until Derek pulled their hands away, smiling. He kept his fingers tangled with Stiles', kissing Stiles' knuckles before speaking. "I would like breakfast. What about you?" Again, Stiles' stomach betrayed him and gurgled at Derek's words, the two of them sharing a laugh. "Stay here, I'll bring something. I suspect there's quite a spread out there, but I want to spend as much time in bed with you as possible today."

Stiles leaned in to kiss Derek deeply, agreeing with every step of Derek's plan. He straightened the linens and fluffed the pillows, settling back into them just in time to watch Derek come back into the room balancing a tray laden with fruit and bread and wine, and all sorts of other things. They ate slowly, feeding each other, licking honey and fruit juices off of each other's skin, and it was perfect. Stiles knew that not every day would be as perfect and as easy as this one had been, but that was okay. He had realized that if something is worth having, it has to be worth fighting for. Derek smiled at Stiles, lips sticky with honey, and Stiles leaned in to kiss them clean, lingering until he tasted Derek beneath the fruity sweetness. This was definitely worth fighting for, but until he had to fight, Stiles was going to enjoy every perfect moment.

_Epilogue_

I lifted my head as the soft sounds of music drifted through the palace, a lilting tune played by obviously skilled fingers. Music was no longer an unfamiliar sound in the King's palace, and it wasn't until it returned that I realized how much I had missed it. The former King had been a hard man, and though he had been a good ruler, he had run a palace truly lacking in joy. His son was quite a different man, and though it had taken him, as well as the rest of us, a long time to accept that perhaps his father hadn't always been correct, he had gotten there eventually. As his long time confidante, I had known for years that the new King hated the way his father controlled what went on in the palace, but when it came time to take the throne, he had been scared to make the changes he desired. I would never have thought that a slave would be the one to change all that.

It had been nearly a year since King and Stiles had been reunited, and though I held my breath through those first few months, it had been mostly uneventful. King was calmer and happier than he had ever been, and though initially the rulers of neighboring lands sneered behind his back, soon even they couldn't deny that he was a better ruler with Stiles at his side than he had ever been without. That night when Stiles slipped up and everything had come crashing down around he and King certainly hadn't been forgotten, but it had not been repeated. Other rulers took that to mean that King had finally put Stiles in his place, and what did it matter that they were wrong? Stiles' place was at King's right hand, and in his heart, and what others didn't know, did not hurt them.

Maybe the world outside the palace was not any different than it had been a year ago, but inside, everything had changed. King hadn't been able to free the slaves, but he had been able to get new guards who treated them like humans. Though of course the slaves wished to be free, regular meals, breaks from the sun and more sleep had done wonders, and King's monument had seen incredible progress. I was surprised how easy the changes had been once they had been made, and I admired King for finding the courage to do it.

My ears perked up as another sound joined the calming melody of Stiles' lute, the high, clear sound of King's voice. I closed my eyes for a few moments and just listened, grateful that I was one of the lucky few who got to hear this. In my mind, nothing proved more strongly that King had been chosen by the gods than his voice. It was a true gift, and it had gone unused for far too long. Now, nearly every night after supper Stiles would retrieve his lute and sit at King's feet, head resting against his knee while King sang. They played traditional songs, and sometimes King would sing whatever came to his mind, with Stiles seeming to anticipate each note and meeting him there. On very special nights, they would do this in the great hall, encouraging the residents of the palace to gather there and listen.

"Deaton, would you like to come in and listen, or are you going to stand in the hallway all evening?" King's voice was tinged with laughter as he called me, and I chuckled as I realized I had been standing in the hall outside his rooms for some time. I pushed open the door to a familiar sight. Stiles was curled on the floor, one hand wrapped around King's calf, the other resting on his lute. King's fingers were in Stiles' hair, rubbing over his scalp, and they both looked at me with softly twinkling eyes and easy smiles. I smiled back, thinking that I had never been happier to be wrong about something. The way that Stiles looked up at King with love and adoration in his eyes, and the way that King returned it tenfold made me wonder how I could ever have tried to warn them away from this. Theirs may be an impossible love, but they both fought for it and won it in the end; it was truly a powerful thing to witness.

 

THE END


End file.
